I suppose you never knew this,
but trees bleed,
And all their hurt, you cannot see.
Because outside, trees are silent, brave and stoic
I once saw a bleeding tree,
with it bark torn deep,
I caressed its wound and could –
almost hear it weep.
I sat beside that tree,
whom is thought by the world could never hurt.
For they in their blindness,
pompously assume- what does not show, does not feel.
I pitied the tree,
for in its silence, I saw a semblance of me.
Perhaps once, the tree had laughed and sung and cried,
But then lies were breathed; knives drawn, trunks hacked.
Perhaps then, the tree folded itself
into its realm of silence: still, gaunt, unmoving;
ostensibly strong against the lashing storm,
an emblem of strength and tenacity.
Me and my tree, we sat like past and present,
on the edge of the hubbub of everything,
overlooking serpentine crowds, hidden daggers and sweet poison,
branch in hand, both incarcerated by a distant pain.