How do you do, Mr. Tree?
Years ago, you were nothing more
than a seedling, firmly planted
at the bottom of uncared-for things.
Today, you've tripled in size.
Today, you stand five stories
above my head,
orchestrating a symphony
of chilly wind in
little circles around me.
Aren't you proud how I managed
to foster you, how I managed to raise
you without anyone knowing?
Are you glad to know how
gracefully you've mastered the art of
blotting out the sun?
Are you pleased to know that
your branches dip down to
wrap my ankles,
binding me closer to your
rotting heart?
Mr. Tree, everyday your gnarled hands
sit on my shoulders, letting me
crack under the insurmountable weight.
You adorn yourself with
pretty petals that unfurl like
switchblades.
Mr. Tree, your countenance
beams with toxic liveliness,
kept afresh by my
remains.
YOU ARE READING
Today Wasn't The Best
Poetry"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you." -Joseph Heller
