The lofty trunk cannot be fully seen
without the lens of fear forcing a retreat. But the calluses
plagued his frame with a wight's woe, took his sheen
like symbiotes, whose host, once brimming with youth's chalice,
no longer embodied a titan. How
his atrophic arms fared no better, no longer
tending to his budding children and much less stronger
to even shoulder their riddled heavens now.
How does this stick leave a quaking impression
above a plateau’s height from a viewing session
with a perceived gloss that should be confused for rugged hands,
and unable from the blurred tall figure
to discern bone: So another ring forms and
another wrinkle creases. He is the one you transfigured.