"The Proven, Set, Sure"

Oh my! This tree is heavy. . .

I have been carrying its body for days.

With its half-healed wounds

Shrouding fallen limbs and knots.

My fingers push in where it rots.

I’m carrying it to the tree factory,

To see its skin and flesh shred

Into steaming mulch, mesh, dead.

I thought I heard its wooden groans,

I thought I heard a withering death,

I thought I heard familiar fractals

Cracking into cessation abating–

A horrific mutilating.

It pains only me with a parallel stress,

To see the unnecessary take place everyday,

On top of that desolate slaughtering hill,

With its grasses trampled, brown and faded

From a tree-lugging stampede, jaded. . .

Hauling the trees with cold conscience and face,

Just between rock and hard place.

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