Discipline

You told me once that my soul has fragments:

an expanding mosaic forest of all earthly feeling

a wonderland born from dream-focused senses

a blessing grown from all the cutting tangents

                You said:

                one-tree forests wither pointless in the shade;

                one-note stories attract no glory or attention.

But I think you need a sculptor’s discerning fervour:

prune some branches to create an orderly clearing

edit your dog-eared manuscript for grammatical tenses

smooth the antisocial edges to liveable, inviting curves

                I say:

                unruly forests are the first to be burned and felled;

                a confusing, chaotic narrative is loved by no one.