True Vine

Phantom babies ripped from my chest,
dripping with mortar of unreal bricks,
waking from dreams clutching counterfeit coins,

a viscous layer of discarded wishes, pruned,
vile branches, vocal cord polyps,
dead, natural yeasts, bottles of wine.

History ended the year I was born,
buried in biomes of all-you-can-waste,
sick, neon greens, VHS blues, angel's wing's

feathers falling like petals,
grey lidless eyes staring blankly at heaven,
hearts beating hungry for world-eating fire.