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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Death · #588103
Another young one
Loggers are coming
The trees stretch up to the sun
For the last time.

They start weeping
As if to warn the others
About death.

The saw growls
And the trees sap
Runs cold.

The saw rips
Off it's tough skin
Making it shrivel.

The saw tears
Through its ringed core
Killing the hundred-year old tree.
© Copyright 2002 Apie Poo (tubagodess at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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