Look at what they bear, the
bare
trees that bare their needs;
stare at their seeds and see
what they have grown to be:
forgotten.
Fruits now rotten and their bark is still
rotting - the rainclouds
are now spotting from high
thereby blotting out the sky.
Branches try to rightfully write
with the ink of sunlight
yet to their own fright they write
on the might of our disgusting blight.
And now the tree can no longer see
the morning dove that shone so bright.
In that sense we are the rainclouds that shroud in multiple crowds.
PEACE IS A SOFT WHISPER
yet we are screaming too loud.
Even more,
we are screaming not for a peace score,
yet at the ugly eye sore –
and so we bore through the core,
until we call that too a chore: "what a bore!"
Ask ourselves what for?
Ask ourselves to explore when the bare tree
was once a thing to adore before:
when we were humane animals.
Now we are like cannibals
screaming timber
until
the
tree
falls:
destroying trees is indeed a form of cannibalism –
rerouting the food chain into a new prism
- we caged ourselves in our own prison
in the process thereof. Now the
bare
tree can no longer see
the white resplendent dove;
so the bare tree bares its only need of
love.