Cutting the oak – a poem

For some crocked reason ― I can’t remember which ― I was uprooted from the forest.
They sew me down.

With their nasty chainsaws running on this dirty petrol.

I was two hundred years old.

How old are they?

Just children playing with toys. Destroying for the fun of it.

Don’t you call it a job. It’s taking your spray can and marking X on perfectly sane trees.
You are doing it deliberate,
no debate about it.

Anarchistic assholes getting high on your power.
Where would you be without oxygen?

In the ground that’s where.

Like manure, left to rot.

Maybe I want a shot,
of your decomposed body.

To grow tall again,
touch the sun
and swallow the water.

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