60 Years

the soft breeze of a newborn tree, blowing softly in the spring, so young and impressionable, and easily swayed. singing a song so simple soon to be changed, flowers around and good in its heart, thinking in only the present and now, wondering what the world is like, wishing for knowledge it will not like, weeds around its pretty roots, whispering words of abuse, its learning things so obscene, seeing actions cruel and mean, knowing now its evil truth, the trees blossoms turn to leaves. Seasons change and summers here, the tree ignores its ugly fears, its growing oh so steadily, questioning all it sees, knowing now of all the lies, seeing things it dose despise, wondering how Gandhi closed his eyes, and turned his back on this, experiencing death first hand, losing friends that don’t come back, still learning what he had to know, his brain hurting from what it holds, its pushing him not to live, instead slowly fade a wiser way, his leaves change different shades. he stays away, from earth these days, as fall is changing his ways, he only talks to worthy things, that understand the world isn’t what it seems, he wishes he was simple minded, and not as old and wise as he, a wallflower is how he acts, taking in what he sees, but never moving or saying a thing, he's not as wise as he wants to think, he often dwells upon his past, his years shortening he’s not immortal you see, his leaves slowly disappear until he is left bare. the cold and doom-like winter, is the last of seasons he will see, they say the good die young, but he often wonders what is he, he’s became of dark and death, as cold air push the tree, and now he awaits a simple fate, we all die don’t we, as he thinks of what he knows, he is soon to see what he is wasting, no we're not immortal he thinks, but all just a bit too late, for now its time for fate, his bark turns dark and he is cold, buried beneath a sea of we.