|
|
|
This tree is like an old woman,
Endless cracks and breaks from being worn,
And lonely branches hanging down,
Thirsty in the dried-up pond.
Leafless, broken, oozing sap,
She bleeds, alone, dying slowly,
Slowly, unlike her friends and family,
Taken quickly by the merciful chainsaw,
But she is left, to live alone,
To die alone with only smog above her head.
And the only light to warm her trunk
Is from the neon, drunken lights,
And the only breeze to cool her down,
Is from the exhaust pipes of those noisy monsters.
And the only company she ever has,
Is the occasional weary traveler,
Who rests his head upon her trunk,
But quickly leaves because he has more important things to do.
And the only rain falls to soothe her,
Is full of acid and full of pain,
Not a little bit like the rain she drank so long ago.
I climb up carefully, gently,
Into her sad, forgotten bough,
I pat her softly and her bark,
Crumbles into my gentle hands.
I pick some flowers from the yard,
And tuck them deep into her roots,
And as I turn to walk away,
A tiny blossom flutters down;
The only blossom on this forgotten tree.
I hold it gently in my hand,
Then push it into the soft, dry ground.
And as I turn to go away,
The happy tears creep down her bark,
And splash down deep into the ground,
Feeding, and loving her only child.
 Morgana The Heartless · Fri Apr 27, 2007 @ 12:46am · 1 Comments |
|
|
|
|
|
