do you wonder about the laziness of trees,
branches that move only by the wind;
fruit that falls by a scampering squirrel?
I know that most people cut it down a notch,
just to have a view of their desolation,
proof of work and proof of stake;
killing and murder and cutting off,
removing, abusing, and isolating:
that is what human power is to trees.

the abuse is worth it, you say,
when you’re humming monotonous rhymes,
wearing pretty things like dresses and hair dyes
to conceal the strange timings of autumn,
the great prophet of winter’s aging skin:
one leaf is the first to fall;
another one is last: truly remarkable,
as the children run and play,
scattering all over coming frozen ground,
careless of their destination;
especially careless of their birth.

But outside all your popular rhythms,
beyond the prose of bloodlines
do you wonder how no one reveres
every silent and subtle syncopation;
when the great fall into death,
eyes too heavy with iron knowledge,
while the small and tiny are born into life,
eyes too empty to care?

there you are, summer’s castaway,
still chasing pretty and sweet and nice,
a child playing in cardboard houses,
a dog chasing that shiny blood red ball,
only it’s looking more real every day,
for you know Death awaits you in the end,
a panic only evoked through horror films
and Netflix, actors and masks and phantasies,
outliving all true love and compassion,
O, now you call to “Life”, to be as careless as the tree!,
But it is always Death who you mean,
O Death!, that great master you call God,
who unrhymes everything you once scribbled and wrote;
in whom your only respect – the only mirror left – remains.








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