The Beam

He stood
Old, rustic, and weathered
Holding up the weight
Of a shelter
His body stained dark
From the blood
Of the wounded roof

How much longer
Could the timber stand?
He would fall once again
Like he did that day in the forest
When men with monster weapons
Waged war on his family

What would happen to him now,
As old age weakened him?
Burned and disgraced?
Or cleaned up and reused?
Sometimes life as a slave
Is better than no life at all

But for now
The forgotten tree
Would stand,
As he always had,
Rough in appearance
But strong-willed
United with a pin