My Tree


Growing ever so straight from the low land

Having risen into the sparkling sun

Tumbling quickly down from lumber mans hands

No matter her lovely age she can't run

Thrown savagely into her chariot

Not a second glance past to her figure

A delicate carving of Harriet

Her beauty not hidden in disfigure

She is suppressed from the eyes of others

Not ever to be admired from my gaze

Unable to one day be a mother

She is lost under factory false glaze

    Her story shall not have a final end

    In a cover will blossom once again


This poem is about: 
Our world


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