The Tree has punctured a lung

The internal turmoil of existing.

The Tree has punctured a lung,
Its breathtaking Bark of gold and life has taken root within my ribs
It sits atop my soul.
The aging scars of my decaying body hold its Branches upright.
Watering it has become a daily chore.
A need, a necessity, a burden
I am not free from it.
It is not free from me
Yet It rules over me, strangling my thoughts in Its evergreen embrace
I have waited for its fruits to ripen, for its white Buds to mature
and sweet nectar to enrich my dried-up heart
But They cling stubbornly to the mother’s embrace

I have aged waiting in thirst for its fruit
And I water the Tree daily to have a taste of the labor
Yet I sit here, decades pass, with nothing but an empty promise of the relief
A promise I whisper in my own ears
Because the tree can’t talk, of course, the tree can’t talk, I didn't realize that.
But it doesn't matter.
Because I think I have realized that before
I will still water the Tree
Because that's all I’ve grown to know
I think once, when the Tree was just a sapling at the edge of my heart,
And thrived on the blood in my veins,
I did not worship the invader
Or await some miracle apple
Nor willingly bear its tremendous pain
But that once has passed away, like a thousand such days

And soon i will decay, beyond repair
my eyes will grow white film, my neck, loose skin
i wish it was different, it can be, i wish it could
And i continue to water the Tree
And the Tree will never bloom
I'm sorry it has to end this way, but end this way it will