A Leaf Not Fallen

Before fathers failed or mothers made milk
lines upon lines grown once valiantly soiled
simply became spoiled under age and sun,
works-in-progress shattered by stunted apologies
or ruined by demons and scientifically proven
methodology and mythology.
Out of a stark cold winter borne
what was to become the ribmeat of the family
with bright sea eyes turned to fleeting waves
and the largest heart, unfocused and prone
on a tree from which roots twisted and pulled in
disease and spirit, a water and a wine,
paradox upon paradox pushing sin and salvation
between stone and skull -gemini love and hate;
schizophrenic voices of good and evil up into limb by limb
and fanning out over the course of a body,
the veins of the calendar for a lifetime.
Built to withstand the courage of the oceans,
the tenacity of the wind or the will of the ill-begotten;
the bark is the symbol of a worn down bite.
I am the leaf on the tree as colors change me
over a September colder to remember
but too drunk to forget why I'm here.
Shifting but never rattled by oncoming trains,
plane crashes, delerium tremors, gales or hailstorms.
I may struggle but never crumble;
my besmirched reputation wants to prove me clean
of the instincts gearing toward shadiness or haziness.
If not for my ties you'd see persistence instead of laziness.
It's when I separate from the detatchments in life
do I most often feel more together-put.
Not a sidebar or organ essential to something else
or dependent on something for survival.
This is functioning knowing where the pain sits
and what causes the hurt, but still searching
after all I know from what life's shown me,
for the reasons it's supposed to have been like this for me.