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Poem

I see brown leaves drooping, burn marks in the bark,
the populated gala, ignorant in the park.
...With obliviousness, boots are crushing-
the dreaming leaves that died before.

Wild roots, a strewn abroad,
rot from tip to base, a sad sad song.
...And the core
it's weeping, a noise severe that ears can't hear,
painful howling from the wood,
that individual ears misunderstood.

Yet over the tumult,
uproar crowd without remorse,
I wonder how the tree there died.
was it a plant's equivalent cyanide?
Staring at the husking shell,
littered with burnt butts and ashes-
the center of party hats and flashes,
a tobacco funeral straight from hell,
poor tree, I bid thee well.

A victim of stupidity and arson,
alcohol violence and poison.
Proof that nature hates the flaws of man.
I'll never know the pain thy has endured,
from life, reduced to shards of wood...

And all for humanity's entertainment,
...I think I understand the plant's equivalent cyanide.


Author's note: I am not sure about this poem.  Does anyone think it's finished or does it
need more work?

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