A
tree on the ground lays silent.
A
hopeless, hapless, tragic sight,
A
loss. A triumph. A violent
Greeting
to an unwelcome fight.
Rings
count the years in quiet solace.
Within
the rings, a man sits and waits.
He
looks at the world through a wooden gaze.
I
wonder what he sees.
I
cannot care to ponder his fate.
Does
he want for this tragedy?
Does
he wish to breath the fresh air?
He
breaths, the grainy land hard at his lips.
A
tremulous and delicate touch holds his
Solitary
heart at a fathoms depth,
His
limbs grasping for pulsing thought.
To
kiss the sky was all he dreamt of
In
his communal loneliness.
As I
think of this, I am cold.
A
shiver runs my spine.
To
chase the chill and warm my touch,
I
threw another log on the fire.
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