The twisted branch

A tale to tell, the heart sees light branch around,

Beauty growing, reared from the ground

Photos can be manipulated, frames edited,
One should never forget, amid illusion

Nothing’s solid, and lezzos manipulated

To fear coming out, and I could be, in their eyes,

Cast dehumanised, and I’ll not be that

I’ll not see them that way, they that cast the spell,

At me, gnarled and poisonous, as I am myself,

I’ll not fear my own beautiful, twisted self,

The shape of them, and I, of being human

The illusion only a reference from which to view oneself

And only a frame, with no being, and being only be that:

Heartfelt, of which one with the heart sees

You, g, growing in shape, branching of beauty,

To my being, reaching out; root sees light in frames of itself