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Retired Trees
Tired old men, propped up
by thick, blackened crutches,
are waiting.
Backs bent by thick winds, they're
stiff like eggs, skins beaten tight.
They've been uprooted
and gathered together to be tended
by some young saps, who pose
green fingers on their supple limbs.
Sparse grey rustles shrink
from the curly clumps of youth.
The old men wilt
with frustration. Tired, they're
scored with rings of history. Heavy
rain welds their crooked forms
into a canopy of arms, slung
about each other's necks.
The Reading
Staring blindly at deadened rows of
Black hats bobbing in a sea of
Blank faces, white moons.
Hands resting on rough, bright wood;
His voice echoes an empty melody over
Pots, urns, a teddy bear.
White flowers highlight
Charcoal squares of suits,
Burnt out cinders.
He drums up words, memories,
That neither dowse or enflame
His chiming heart.
Cementing brokenness
With cheap sticky tape,
Bringing an empty offering.
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