Hundreds of years old the old oak touches the impossible sky.
The vacant black devine in the most ancient of nights.
It's roots touch the dead ground of earth
And rap around your decaying bones.
The tree that lives off the red marrow of your old earthly skeleton.
It's ancient voice wakes you from eternal sleep, so you are forced to touch the freezing sky.
You look over the world and feel the wrath of a minoritys lives.
Still living,
heaving,
Jealous of your death,
Waiting to die.
They climb the old oak,
dripping in blackened blood.
Reaching the top they see the stars,
An impossible dole they gaze apon.
Gravity pulls them down,
Digging a grave in the ground.
Underneath the bloody oak they seek,
Their young,
beautiful bones find eternal sleep.
