If this was My Last Expression.

If this was my last expression,
my sentiments would wrap willow trees around my throat
and words would mean no more,
these roots could reach into my organs in search
of simple melody and find malignity
growing its own justifications.

If this was my last expression,
that willow would ache from the inside
out, and spread through my fingertips
to meet ink-filled blossoms; their heart-heavy veins flowing
water thicker than blood
and flavored with the sweet promises of love.

If this was my last expression,
the temptation troubled mind-thoughts would lie
broken by the shore under Edgar's 'nevermore' coloured skies.
I'd hide these confessions beneath his
recesses, for the moment reality penetrates innocence.

If this was my last expression,
that reality would collide into the childhood
forming Pangea in my eyes and would mingle
with dream-fed memories begging to be heard
by believing ears.

If this was my last expression,
my fears would be as meaningless as the tears
staining the face of a gold child
wrapping willow fingers around
my throat to plant its own justifications,
and words would mean no more.