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Poem

The tree of creed, but only a seed, grows so green for lack of what’s seen.

The tree of creed, held straight with a tether, does need the support
 for it is as strong as a feather.

The tree of creed, alone forms to leather, to endure the wind and rain,
for how many can predict the weather?

The tree of creed, from this cold, will drop the leaves of splendour;
scattered like marbles, they succumb to the wind, the sender.

The tree of creed, grows crooked, for lack there of the light; 
who would have thought this world would be cause of such a blight.

The tree of creed, so dark and tweed, seems to stand alone;
 for nothing else can survive in this place it calls home.

The tree of creed, all alone indeed, in this patch of dirt; 
if only one could see how much this tree does hurt.

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