Poetry and Writes

Pinesong (POEM)

*An untimed write while listening to Pinesong (a song by A Fine Frenzy). No prompt, except the music.*

A lonely tree--its sheathes once vibrant,
Now the shade of withered steel,
Stands upon the plain--

All around it, strange pigments,
One of fading, one of turning,
One of dead tides and another

Of the hot sun's breath in
Reluctant leaves--
The tree sways in a wind long

Forgotten by the stones, by the
Strings that once resonated with
The throbbing veins around it--

Veins that have curled and crumbled
Into the merciless day,
Black paint, ash of a deceased

Fire, arrows slinging, breaths
Catching and fading, the planet
Twisting in the funnel of gravity--

Oh, god, gravity, it pulls
The tree's roots deeper into
Itself. And the tree--the tree--

There's another breath, one from
The mouth of one more captured--
Is the tree not alone? Bare branches

Quiver and the strings begin to
Grow from its roots, begin to
Snake, puzzled, and connect.

It is not alone. All around
It, others have been taken,
Taken, into the earth again.

The tree spreads its boughs to
Embrace its dark-bound kin--
Not entirely content, but not

Reluctant, either. There are
Others here, though decrepit and
Never speaking, never reciprocating--

It is better than living
Idle upon a sleeping plain.