tiny broken pieces and a faint memory of you

rotten tree-one hundred five

skepticism may never be an acessory
but it will surely be a magnifier glass
for people to look at things than it was,
and so they can never be sure as they will be.
butterflies fly above,
as if it's own unscathed bliss
as if it's wings were made of love,
each piece rendered  with such kiss
peaceful green grass,
achy calling of the brass,
flowers as of great interest,
standing tall in its mighty branches
they shall never wither,
or not die
for your passion forever strikes
a huge tree,
sparkled with glee,
standing mighty within its stance
no weakness,
nor feverish winds
can break down its resistance
green pure leaves,
shall never fade,
and never will do harm
for when another faints,
the tree will be your savior
and help you out,
only with pure leisure
no returns to ask,
and no words enough to bask
but never leave it as it once was,
that's why people need a magnifying glass;
they need to see through the thorns of the branches,
through the roots and through the many parts of its grunges
they need to see the tree.
all of it;
and not just thee
if you look a little closely,
you'd be shocked so suddenly
the tree has gotten decay
with wither spores of black and blue
it was destroyed yet no one noticed,
how sad it turns to grow
the broken tree did exist,
but it was never alive.
for in this land where it stands,
it is alone and forlorned
for there's no magic that heal
nor wands that of seal
so in this land,
the tree, alone
was a falling grace
for it was taken and shall forever live,
in it's own melancholic solace
forevermore alone,
and still mighty in its woeful, wretched depression
stuck and still trying
to get out of its isolation
so the tree will remain a something,
in the midst of happy butterflies,
social grass,
and pretty flowers,
but with a destroyed plague,
and a virus that shall never be covered.
it may be sad for a happy but broken tree,
but she tries to seek help,
but no one cared,
and no one noticed.