Forest

The trees, brittle and poor,
One day they were tall,
Standing proudly amongst the sun,
They sulk and shrivel now,
Underneath the malicious moonlight,
Life seems indifferent to death.

Like the withered hands of their planter,
The trees collect dust out of duty,
Crouching with hunchbacks in their soil,
The insects crawling upon them have more life and purpose,
Photosynthesis is now obsolete,
Industrialisation is the norm.

Lost and dazed in their mysterious presence,
The trees eclipse the purple land,
Creating an ominous shadow,
Scaring the creatures living there,
Ants; dung beetles and lice,
Suddenly, they move,
If only realised their intention.

The trees: formerly a gift of Earth,
Presently an extraneous mass of pessimism,
They sit.
Examiners of the foolish humans;
Invigilators of the force of nature,
Archaic in their manner and role,
Fragments of Man’s life.

Gravestones of all that was:
All that could ever be,
Subliminal in their relative absence,
They continue to live their death,
Until they die.