Who are you to tell me
what I need or who I am? Point out each
When I am a tree, still & quiet–
barely alive among your wreckage.
You pick my fruit when I feel warm &
leave me barren. It is always winter
when you sit on your throne in my shade
like a winning god who fools everyone. &
you devour all that is left of me, even the sapling,
that once grew beside me.
The lightning in your eyes severs my
branches, those that once reached
toward numerous stars & gathered
I’ve become rooted in your
corroded soil. I am full of rust now,
stories & wisdom too painful to name.
You go about your days feeding
off the last of me. Soon
I will burn to the ground.
& few will know or understand
what started that fire. They will
shake their heads & say
“A damn shame about that odd tree
that stood for so many years”
Then they will probably shake your hand
give their condolences,
& walk away.
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