All Through the Woods

All through the woods there is the sound Of the endless hacking of the trees. The stumps like graves of all the felled Their corpses rotting in the empty fields Waiting to be pulled away to turn into paper Like that which upon this poem is penned And there in the field remains the stump And the dead grass upon which the dead tree had lain. Her ghost still perseveres in perverse pain. To the skies and stars she screams her prayers. The growing desolation. The unstoppable desert. As leaves turn to dirt and dirt into sand.