A Tree Aglow The Dark Extreme. Poem by Mark Heathcote

Without love in the world
all dreams and aspirations
would be Braille, knurled
silent blotted passions.

Just as trees in the night
rangy on swords of truth
graven in a shade turbid
in a bed, shaking for light.

Furtive-sun dazzled spiders
tremble in emptiness?
Illusionists and conjures
enticed into webs of madness.

A pandemonium - a malady
a weakness or a Jealousy
but this too is a boundary
a need for all things, sassy.

Yes, our world needs love
the aspiration of a dream
but let its voice be as above
a tree aglow the dark extreme.