Roots Before Branches

I am the stale taste of twice lit smoke;
the reaping of an old land for a new demise,
and this, my breadth of reign,
is but an insignificant plot:
the measure of one hand to the other.
But I claim prose here, when I allow the time.
Here, I've learned to cull indifference,
to crop my own remorse.

No longer am I the ruins
of some abandoned automobile,
strung with weeds and forgotten
in some far removed wood, though,
some side-eyed glimpse remains.

I am stagnation;
some new root that has not yet traversed the seasons,
not yet proved itself alive,
and I know not yet what shape I will take,
or if a change is at all possible.

And what stiff indifference pulls at me-
when every possibility displeases.
What odds? That I may find myself abloom some day,
and surprise even the deepest rooted doubt
which steals the very will of life from me,
and yet,is completely a part of me.

Surely, there is time within the world
to find the perfect bloom
and pull it to me
with long deliberation
and make it,completely, a part of me.