Bodies lay rotting in this wasteland.
A dead man's glory can no longer be seen.
His once lively greenery lays wasted as his potential.
Darkened and without potential as they lean on one another.
Hands once reaching for the stars
Now lay flat or in abstract configurations.
Down to their roots they are dead,
And at the top the life flees,
Like bodies from burning buildings.
His energy is reaching towards the sky once more,
Hoping it will be the one who is picked up this time.
Maybe he is doing his last duty and producing a cleaner living.
Maybe he is greedy and is busy surviving.
The either or in this case doesn't matter
For moments are all that are left;
Precious moments he loses by not panicking
And witnessing himself diminishing instead.
He is not a victim of acrimonious warfare,
No, not even abominably perverse in his meaning in death.
He passed on, as did the ones around him,
Due to a lacking in the right foundation;
No metaphor needed for the foundation
Wasn't drenched enough for all the trees
To get what they all deserved,
So the trees died together,
Reaching for the clouds to feed them once more.
