Trees stand lonely, silent still within the forest--
not starved of air, nor robbed of water or the sun,
but of the birds that chirped and the winds that blew,
the intertwined roots of the trees that once together hath grown.

"The birds will disturb thee," an unknown voice exclaimed,
"and wind will chafe thy peace in endless ways."
"the roots of others will confine and isolate."
Said a man in green who came that day.

So they drove the birds away, shattered their nests and eggs;
they blocked the wind that once refreshed;
Remembering the third thing that the man had said,
They tangled one another, till there was no space to spread.

Now they stand alone, and truly so--
in a stillness more desolate than any flood or storm,
each branch forsaken, each trunk unshared,
all the leaves sat on the ground, when the man came back.

Come back he did, with an axe on his shoulder, sharp and clean;
One by one he felled them, no birds or rocks to stop him anymore.

Stumps now mark where the forest dreamed of peace,
each circle a monument to the lies that once appeased,
and so the man moves on to the next stand,
whispering the same sweet lies, with his colour matching those he would erase.

Only if't be true that the trees had eyes, and some limbs to spare,
it might've been diff'rent, perhaps careful they'd've been.

O thee who art reading this, where are the eyes of thy own?
For in thy lush world, why don't you see the one in green?
Don't you have limbs to defend thyself, or to unveil the Poser?

Or art thou stuck, in the illusions of your dreams,
blinded by thyself or the sweet poison of the green?
O thee who are reading this, where are the eyes of thee ?