The Tree

The tall twisted tree,

now after so many years staring down the same gentle rolling hill.

Her branches weave together with intertwining memories,

once flourishing with vibrant green leaves but now nothing less than

a fruitless black tree, so so lonely, a void filled by none.

The bare, gnarly tree

she’s seen so much our world has to offer.

She’s seen spirited young children scurrying past, with wild imaginations and eyes of wonder.

She’s seen wayward teens in their virtual worlds who, without knowing it, inflict pain on their friends through those mortifying years, she has seen it all.

The ancient, sodden tree

full of the memories of controversial conversation that happened beneath her.

She’s watched alliances formed by a overdue hug,

malignant bullies that no one dared to stop,

and inflammable buffoons in their most hostile moments.

The wise, old tree

watched playful children dance beneath her branches,

youth disheartened and bewildered by the challenges ahead of them,

the elderly trying to procure peace in their final years.

The beautiful tree, orthodox in her ways

now dying, wincing under the weight of her memories.

But her stump will forever remain,

a memory of those who learned how to live under her branches,

on the gentle, rolling hill.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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