A Tree
Like yellow spots are the golden leaves hanging from the trees
Like capillaries and dendrites, appendages glowing in the fall
Whose air is crisp and sere as Poe would say, but not
In that same haunting way as if walking towards a grave
Built up with stones like an evil mark to remind the living
Where they are heading, what they’re becoming–
No one thinks this wrong or foolish to mark and mind
Things like death and pain and sorrow when each day’s
Sleep cures these things, we do forget our dreams,
Why not some realities?
White is the bark like ghosts and just as stark,
Thin and bare with blackened core revealed where white
Skin has been torn away–the hollow wind
Has had its way with the white ghouls that rise like posts:
Tall, thin, gaunt sentries and spectres looming high above
But ignored: intangible beings so firm and strong,
Forgotten so fast; for what deeds did they do
That would merit memories to last for more than a day or two?
This is the definition of man.
Black is the core, burnt by time,
Ashen but not broken, more sturdy than girders
Molded out of some mighty metal
That is buried head end down into the hardened ground
So that while we even see some black scars of under carriage
The massive brain is hidden still, along with its
Offshoots–so that man makes a tree and does not
See himself in it anymore than the tree can see
That in it is life, yet man made it so and does not know.
My entries won’t make line breaks…..but I had to write these….so….yeah.
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