What Isn’t Is Your Truth

The dead pine by the wayside
Gets sharper the more it breaks,
The more it’s carved by weather,

Ants, weevils, and woodpeckers
Into a ruin of sticks,
All points and black silhouette.

Eventually, it will get
Softened, yes. Eventually
It will turn fungus and dust.

Yet, between growing years
And absolute vanishing,
Fallen minds get wicked sharp.