Untitled #6

My heart is lined with trees but my soul is the city. It fills my body and forms my words. It is the breath blown into me; cold, smoggy, sly, necessary. The city has spread its sediment along my bones. And though my tree-heart cleans the veins that branch through this vessel, the city's terrible, glorious soot will choke me, lovingly, in the end. And it's an end I accept. An end that I fear and covet. Because death is fearful. Because death is right.