A Tree Growing From My Chest

by R.L. Bagula

Should I die (or fade
out gently)
Plant my body (freeze
my soul)
So that a tree grows from my chest
(that I feed a new life ).
Subtext, context,
wisdom,
I sometimes feel so
dead-alive.
Should we live so long (as
young-old men do)
That the earlier me has become a
total stranger?
Naivete and
ideals,
All spoiled by the reality of experience
(spilled blood and worms).
The diversity of
complexity,
The blurring black lines in
older weaker eyes.
Should I live (and have
new children)
Plant my seed in a new
generation,
So that a tree grows from
my chest.