The Tree grew roots of
solemn ivory
Covered by the depths of
the murky obscene
The echo of ripples and
the lily pad’s dismay
Ricocheted off its tender
bark with a void plunk
A pebble away from home,
pondering the endless rush
Of tainted poison, water
that could not be his father’s
Stroking the jagged edges
of a natural maze
The Tree shouldered armor
born of fond white
Days of idle calling where
kids would forge forts among ice
Scooping and sculpting together
a crunching sphere meant for three
Championing the hero who
would stand until his last knee
Or the piercing of the
slippery icicle, a numbness in the tongue
The vapor of the
wonderland’s heart pumping through tired breathing
Observable to even the
youngest sleeping child
The Tree spread out limbs
of charred soot
Inching, marching as
soldiers towards the vibrant, lonely sky
Tinted with the scent of
forgotten, decaying fish
Left to mirror the
onslaught of some unknown sea
Seen by all but the
fleeting fisherman
Packing crawfish and worms
planned for the repeating days
And the faces he saw, the
places he called
The Tree shed leaves in
mountainous decree
Wafting of rotten apples
in accepting shame
Decrepit tombstones
lacking enclosed engravings to encounter
Bones buried beneath in a
melancholic collapse
Dancing to lovers hand in
hand
Grains of wrinkles
crossing in familiar touch
A clock’s hand ticks
rhythmically, illuminating the silence
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