The Tricksters
Like attracts like, or so they say
solitary, the sentinel stood
brown and brittle, lifeless
Its cracked surface home to many
small unfriendly, burrowing, things
corpse companions...
A raven roosts
in its pitch less, upturned arms
undeterred by the sharpness of needles
long lost to the memory
of evergreen winter,
untouched by Persephone’s bloom.
Death holds sway here.
The once noble pine
killed by the acid reign of man,
now serves only the tricksters,
as he flies between worlds.
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