Ouroboros

I looked her in the eye And told her to slowly die.


Asked her stiffened branches To drop with a jilt, Onto the over-exposed leaves That dry and wilt.


She stands there stubborn, Not ready to go; I take an axe And it hits her with a blow.


She staggers, But stays upright, Proud of her withering bark, Where rough winds made her uptight.


She is not routine. When she braved the storms, Her branches danced, Her leaves smiled with warmth. Then a touch would have comforted her. Now there is nothing to be saved from falling apart.


I light a match And gently bring it to where she has dried. I put her to peace, So that the land can again be free and wide.


I ready saplings for fresh plantation. It will grow stronger on manure – Which is built from benevolent leftovers Of the previous residents’ endure.

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Her eyes are still open Her head is hung low Blood trickles along her eyebrow While her eyes adjust to the blow. His arms rise again, Towards the speechless sky. Plunging ahead with the axe, He gives

At the altar of love, She offers herself. He drops an axe, Over her head. The drop came – Without a blink. Did he even Stop to think? A shock to the body A gap on the skin A gush of blood The slit bur

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