Broken Trees

In this sliver of nothing,

Absence,

It holds everything.

Demons,

They try to cut normality,

Shape it,

In their unwilling, vastly envious,

Hands.

Shape it,

So that the insanity,

Might fall through the cracks,

Of their wisps we call fingers.

The memories,

Held up by long, ever stretching pillars,

Trees,

That, in the making,

Seem to lost themselves.

And,

Like a cell,

We are enclosed in strips of irrationality.

Memories,

Of broken trees.