An Ode to Trees

My world creaks like an

                                   Old

                                           Wooden

                                    Chair

And its maker is all I can bear;

Always alive but never breathing,

Everything silent yet endlessly screaming

I see its whispers in my mind

Feel its fingers trickling down my spine

An eternal life that never meets the 

                                                               light

Because it swallows the

                                                               shadows

It is me but I am not it

Bark doesn’t bind my bones—

Warped by time but still refined

My crispy hair isn’t a mess of flames

That always change but 

Still remain—

Reaching for the heavens

My feet don’t splinter off to stay in place—

An eternal

                    home

It can always claim

So, what do you give the thing that has

                                                         heard

                                                                    every

                                                          Question

But                                                                                                                                                                       

                                                           can

                                                                   never

                                                           Answer?

Someone to listen.