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Tapping Trees
January 24, 2008
From source to source,
I made my rounds.
Entering with force,
Leaving little trace.
The cries of the victims,
No one heard.
Burst forth with flow,
The sought spoils.
Collecting what was owed,
unorthodox as it was.
Was my only skill,
My gift, my curse.
Years of drilling,
Pain inflicting wounds,
the silent screams,
caught their punisher.
Collapsed on the stump.
Lifting heavy arms; climactic plea.
Many a battle won,
Unfortunate to succumb.
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