Tree taps on my window
Beyond this reflection of my wooden carcass;reaching for perfection in orange clouded skies, smelling now the misconception burning from these tired eyes.
Seeing faces in the branches, or hands or focused fingernails;scratching at the dismal surface of someone's only point of view. This curse, cast aside, hollow as the wishing well..sickness isn't just becoming, but being as part of the spell.