Come live with me in the trees.

We will make wanting strong wine and strange music,

spurn order and all its trappings.

Did any of that shit ever make you happy—

those walls you bought, your passing little pleasures?

Come, raid these wild lands.

Balk at no offense; bite neck and press

broken bones through dirt.

Never again apologize for the strength of your arm.

I would never pull my punches—

not with you, my sibling.

Death is close here. As it should be.

We will walk with the water as far as it goes.

Wind-loving folk as once we were.

We will bring far horizons to heel on nought

but will and want.

With mountains for fire, we will crisp the hides of sacred game—

lashings of red meat seared with iron.

We will fell the grand stags of the sun;

great tombs mark passing fierce beauty.

I can't piss on my own land for fear

of my responsibility to the eyes of others.

If that's the bar that's been set,

I pronounce myself a man of frail loyalty.

I want to burn through these green lush lands

like a shooting star,

crashing beyond some far-flung hill,

to be discovered in wonder by some bookish little fellow

far from now.

Give fully in;

let mad truth bloom in brilliant hues of heresy,

a beacon roared with profane vigor.

Eat what claw and fang will find.

Awash in clean night air,

eyes shining beneath the thrush.

Come live with me in the trees.