Poetry

It's hard to believe that
something wretched can produce
something beautiful
to carry the seed
to bare generation
to carry the leaves
to fall isn't tragic

the bird that tears up the fruit
so simple, leaves a scar in the memories

a book tells two stories
one that's printed
and the other up until
it's cut down

your dillusionous greed
you took from the seed

how would you like your legs
out from underneath
the pain seems deathening
but trees don't partake in grief
they'll fall by the numbers
and never shed tears
and yet to recall
it's our biggest fear

I'll sit in the silence
and grow with the trees
study their aspects
maybe I am a seed