Ode to an Ex-Tree
Long and square and flat and wood,
carved with ink and pencil blood
that flows and scrawls across white page –
the letters burn, the drawings fade.
Upon its varnished surface gleam
a thousand names, a smudge, a sheen,
and stuck to its belly, like limpets on a rock,
a plethora of chewing gum has flocked.
that flows and scrawls across white page –
the letters burn, the drawings fade.
Upon its varnished surface gleam
a thousand names, a smudge, a sheen,
and stuck to its belly, like limpets on a rock,
a plethora of chewing gum has flocked.
Upon four legs it stands so proud
within its pale brown coffin shroud.
And on the carpet’s head
the mutilated tree squats, dead
as a doornail, cut down, chopped up,
sliced from growing limbs, a living cup
emptied for a wallet full of stones.
And on the carpet’s head
the mutilated tree squats, dead
as a doornail, cut down, chopped up,
sliced from growing limbs, a living cup
emptied for a wallet full of stones.
No more a tree, no more a free, green god,
the ex-tree – now a table – creaks, moans.
Is that so odd?
Is that so odd?
*****
Bio:
My name's Thomas Williams, and I'm an 18 year old student studying English. I don't know when I started writing, and I don't know when I'll stop; so long as the ideas keep coming, my pen will keep going. I've been published in the British Fantasy Society's journal twice, and have a published poem in a new literary magazine called Unspoken Water.
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