Roots Before Branches

I am the stale taste of twice lit smoke;
the reaping of an old land for a new demise,
and this, my breadth of reign,
is but an insignificant plot:
the measure of one hand to the other.
I claim prose here, when time allows.
Here, I've learned to cull my indifference,
to reap my remorse.

No longer am I the ruins
of some old abandoned machine,
strung with weeds and forgotten
in some far removed wood. Though,
some side-eyed glimpse of it remains.

I am stagnation:
some new root that has yet to traverse the seasons,
not yet proved itself alive,
and I know not yet what shape I will take,
or if a change is at all possible.

And what stiff indifference pulls at me-
when possibilities displease?
What odds, that I may find myself abloom some day,
and surprise even the deepest rooted doubt
which steals the very will of life,
and yet, is completely a part of it.

Surely, there is time within the world
to find the perfect bloom
and pull it to me
with long deliberation.