Storm’s destruction of the forest.
The trees fall in dreadful chorus.
The elders cry and crack to floor,
As their elders did before.
And the ancients, torched and burned,
Making room as seasons turned.
We know nothing but this drama.
Our world has always been in trauma.
We haven’t seen what was before,
But we can feel there’s something more.
Softly growing through this season.
We too are here for a reason.
A reason why all is not lost.
A big return on all this cost.
We exist in subjugation.
A mistaken cultivation.
The tiny seeds the tyrants miss.
Our way is open, and we persist.
And take hold with meager roots.
Fueled by dreams of bearing fruit.
Guided by older, rebel souls,
In cunning and courageous roles.
Their twisted ways will be our,
But with an easy, funky power.
Expressions perfect on the vine.
Our quirky fruits will taste just fine.
Our time creeps closer every day,
‘Neath their destruction and dismay.
Our want will one day soon become,
That which was meant from where we’re from.
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