Trees

There is no such thing as a tree unaccompanied:

Deep scars bestowed upon smooth dark bark

Marks left behind like abstract art

Insects taught to stitch deep wounds

Birds that hirp and chirp like baboons

Roots that know the earth and leaves that know the sky

Trees grow up, but are not meant to fly

Between

The chiseled anatomy of skyline and devastation.

When melancholy strikes,

Tis true:

Trees too sing wild and cruel songs of desolation

As they are left to moan and groan

Upon the very ground from which they’ve grown.