I watch.
I just sit, and watch
Those heinous murderers
chopping it one arm after the other.
Those arms that whisked
my childhood.
Its April greens
and November browns that
nurtured the poet in me.
Such torment upon it-
blood oozes out of my eyes.
But, I watch.
I just sit and fucking watch.
A witness of the crime,
as rooted and stationary
as the victim.
Do trees deserve this silence?
Do I deserve this voice?
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