No More Odes to Trees

Burn it all.
I was weak anyway.
Iron God? more like tin in complexion,
bent and twisted,
distorted reflection,
incomprehensible rhymes.
Ice melted too easy by woodland vines.

I will be unbreakable and leave that man behind,
the distressed broken tramp,
heavy laden with broken sighs
made sweet by the golden stamp,
of tree branches on his forehead.
No more.
Now that man is dead.

And trees have no place in My head.