weight of the mold

It is not the chains,
that is too easy.
Perhaps these cancerous roots
that erode his face
and dig pathways to his center.

The Conquistador trunk
grows sun ward
and he wraps his thoughts
into heartwood,
wormwood. Shagbark
protects with its loose grip
as air flows through.

He sees his fate
tilted downward
and to the west.

Immobilized, these chains
do not hold him here,
they hold him together.

Perhaps it is the wood
that births the man into feathered hats,
perhaps the face sees fate
unfold.

Someone please tell me the time.

And now?

Are we moving forward?
Do we peel or layer tonight?