The Wake

I was conjured from constant boil,
boil
toil and trouble. Thick as molasses
from the center. The tree of knowledge brewed,
curling up and in
away a bubble grew.
Traveling out through arms of light
the finger tips of what
held me a slight.
For out of night I coddled this image:
utopian fields and day starred through
emeralds, eyes that watered
constantly. Until, became of me
bursting the day as fingers
broke free
which from no longer did I hang
like sap off the tree.
Sweetly and full of juice, an almost
bound sea.
And once I dropped from these
tangled branches, they rained
with such velocity I obtained,
a child born of roots dug low and
mother veins infiltrating
I, a viscous enforced
with debris, and propaganda
I think. For as I went with mixed
influence
straight back to the earth I
sank.