The Witness
Golden blood, strong and pure,
Seeping from fellow wooden hearts.
Emerald blades, tall and humble,
Beaded with silvery tears.
Weathered scarlet hoods, sorrowed and low,
Concealing unseen beauty.
For centuries it stands,
Its arms stretched wide,
For it cannot run, nor can it hide.
It sits to watch the seasons pass,
To witness life and death, alas.
Mother to the forest,
And all that roams.
Internal emotion blazes from the soul,
Though from within it is contained,
Behind those barky ribs.
Pity and shame,
Can only be felt,
For this silenced sage.
Seemingly immortality is possessed,
Though even this almighty will cease.
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