The Old Man and the Tree- Free Form (22.07.23).

I knew an old tree

for as long as

my life, and

only a quarter of

his own.

When his trunk began to

ache, branches pushing him nearer

the earth, he called for

my time and

with pity I sat beneath his shade.

He droned for as long as

the flakes of bark withheld

crumbling and withering.

He spoke with wisdom,

prophecies of each life

he had watched come and go.

Pride in his tone,

regret for letting the

decades decay

without sharing his findings.

He nagged about nearing a

hundred years, frightened as his

scribbled parchments

will wither away with the

dead leaves, lost to the

mulch for good.

His branches shuddered boisterously

an absolute alchemist!

But he was not.

Far from.

For he spent a century caged by

his own roots,

For he spent his existence

beneath a cloud of

his own doing.

It was gut twisting, tucked between

the soil and his

excellence empty hearted as he

regurgitated everything

a quarter has taught me.

Oh, how heartsore I felt!

how hard it is to see

the tree in such a false state

of Glory,

he is bound by the

limits of time,

and they are bringing him back to

the Ground,

he can do nothing but

gather what remains.

It is too late,

his roots are

entangled, emulsified

with long lost sustainability.

I cannot tell him that I know.

I know. And I am curating my own her roots are spider legs.

I know. And I cannot spill the secrets.

He is who he is and he

deserved more than

a dingy backyard.

I know. And I will let him have it.

How cruel it would be to

deny him

the comforting conclusion of death.