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
The chiseled anatomy of skyline and devastation.
When melancholy strikes,
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.