The Mortality of Trees
Your tarnished skin crinkles in the breeze, an ancient husk that juts from the Earth like a withered question mark; interrogating the exuberance that stirs
"this is sixth form poetry, not Keats or Yeats"
Your tarnished skin crinkles in the breeze, an ancient husk that juts from the Earth like a withered question mark; interrogating the exuberance that stirs
Beneath Diana’s pale embrace, two moths shimmer in the starlight; waltzing through moonbeams, as they flicker across the cool embrace of noon’s forgotten corsage. Suffused
Choking on the excessive vapours Of our abandoned debauchery Your stunted shoots flail awkwardly In artificial chambers of soil and sedge. Your weathered hands Fly
Breathe in. Your crown of precious hues Glimmers in the setting sun; A steadfast declaration that Your appearance will not be Ordained by the passing
You struggle for breath. And reach towards the sun With yellowed fingertips; Stunted roots Can no longer drink The static water that was Once a
Beneath the dusty soil and arid earth Your tentacles branch outwards; Driven by an unseen architect To create multifaceted monoliths Of gnarly twine and knotted
With rising heat, the Earth begins to bloom, The emerald hues a fervent sign of spring; And every breath of air that’s taken in, A
Amongst the icy peaks and stony seas, We count the plants that call such heights a home; Traversing every sudden gale and breeze, To better
Plant a tree Go Barbados and plant A palm tree Turn the water off Drink booze Take a shower with Someone else Take a shower
Ornate and prized as something grand, We didn’t know what you had planned; The warning signs we did not heed, You suffocate us with your