the sever

the tentacle of desire has not reached the root.
it has been severed.
there is no mystery, how it moves,
it aims, and goes
for the shoots.
ready to starve what might hint at growth, say,
something green. and I do mean the green
of joy.
i have taken sides and chosen wisely,
that is to say I have
seen.
and the sever of what would have choked me
did not hurt nearly as much
as misplaced hope,
springing, unwieldy.
i have never won a battle. ever. i have never lifted a
blade in my own strength,
yet the death-grip is severed.