Woven Poem by Christian Thomas Scott

The golden hue and wisps of vibrancy,
Reverberates upon the scattered trees,
And flickers of our own fragility,
Are hov'ring in the soft and sunlit beams.
Murmurs of the kin to which we follow,
The sparse and common change of mankind's form:
Shells, unsleeping, dead, unconscious sorrow,
Burn within the coals of quenched reform.
Caught upon the every breath of men,
And upturned roots return unto the ground,
And lay their siege in perilous amends,
To anchor all our essence underground.
Rooted in the dust of who we were,
And buried in the dust of death's return.