Usual Questions 2 Poem by RIC BASTASA

the old places of the heart
have grown the trees of
guilt, its roots spread in my
bones
the fungus of nerves
are consuming my flesh
sad consequences now
for which i am left without choice
but take them all
slowly
i vomit them and you see
how i suffer

must you be happy by now?

how cruel too are those vines
of your revenge
choking the visions of your
eyes
green with anger
your tongues on fire
too consuming your hair
and body

who wins? the ashes on my feet?