His will not saved

Tree staring ambrosia. The sleek clutter of words--
words that follow lines,
and ones that don't, calm, cunning-
-ly blooming aloof the wide boughs just beyond sight,
all stalking the writer,
and he doesn't even know where they come from.
Words, jungle cats, lurking under the leaves,
working unseen until the pounce,
and the blood that seeps from him
feeds the ground all around his depart-
-ure and entrance. He is an atom,
each broken analysis for social amusement
precious electrons stuck to him in orbit
for now and the time being,
as he slowly leaves himself behind.