Aokigahara

A friend is a forest where I grow new secrets
like freshly-ripe cherries on some unseen branch,
where I suspend the weight of my worries.

They shall hang from the limbs on twisted rope.
I shall leave my affairs as offerings drowning
so that they appear trivial in the sea of trees.

A friend is a forest of listening rocks.
It catches my breath in the porous soil;
it knows when my breathing is burden.
When night-time comes and I’m forced to weave words
into blankets too thin for the cold,

a friend is a forest to outlive us all;
that smiles when I carve silly poems on its bark
and would burn them to ashes, when needed.

— A. P.

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