The Tree

I wanted to scream from the porch, kick dirt in their face        
say something about injustice, idiocy, nonconformity;        
or all, or some, or nothing  at all if they'd just stop. STOP!        
       
Nope, because there has to be direction; a plan; a reverse        
change of wind after the tree is gang-raped by four men,        
wooden-dress ripped, exposed vertebrae saw-dust-spread.        
       
It's a loudness, a soul stomping pain, a wail plowing          
the field of faith kicking loose the gate. It's the audacity        
of progress when you're gnawing on that last bite of hope;        
       
the dinosaur coming alive only to smell the death of all          
he once roamed. It's soured, spoilt, curdled, some thing        
beyond words. Nope, why stop now, let's find out. It's done,        
       
nature shamed, dust and sand fill the eyes and everything        
smells like choke,  but not dry choke from burning leaves,        
nope. It's the slow gurgle of life, the last burst of struggling        
       
air from sludge before the upward rise. What did I really        
believe? Inspiration would plummet into my marbled mind,        
splintering like a chandelier giving birth to a billion bits        
       
of channeled poem with morning coffee and birds simply        
because it had always been there? Look at this very moment;        
Nope. I gather flakes of its white ashes, still warm in my palm.        
       
Neighbors shocked by the crime struggle hard to console as I        
conjure a ritual to pay homage to all that its Life once was.        
         
~