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January 14, 2013
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Solid oaks, standing silent sentry
Even once they're dead, they guard on through the centuries
Gentle breeze, or gale force winds
Silent they remain, save for howling with their limbs
Trimmed, broken and cut down
They do not resist, they fall without a sound
Ground down, turned into sheets of paper
Now they have a voice, though words aren't in their nature
I make sure to show some due respect
Marking bitter ulogies on recycled sheets of flesh
But best intentions are empty after death
Long past are the days of trading breath for breath
They breath in what we breath out. We breath in what they breath out.
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