Lonely Trees

These are lonely trees,

Alone and forlorn,

Standing as the last fighting units

of the defeated forest army,

Their long and broad

robust columns of soldiers gone,

Trillions perished with a moan,

Now these last remnants

wage lonely battles in a brutal field:

Metallic haze, soot and dusty crumbling sky,

Outnumbered and surrounded

By the winning ever-axing army,

One after the other

they are cut, lopped, snapped and pruned,

so they fall,

Every single minute

thousands of these soldiers

are cut wounded and slaughtered,

Odds are all against them,

Even their own patron deity,

—mother nature—

now turns against them,

The windstorm aids the enemy,

The cemented houses are very strong

against the nature’s throng

Almost none of them break,

Just a few poor huts shriek,

But the lonely, thin, scattered

units of the trees are fragile and weak,

Staring at a future very bleak,

They easily give in with a creak,

The howling storm eats their jarring shriek,

So they fall

with a painful call,

They are already tired

in the brutal game of survival,

They cannot fight

as a robust, harmonized army,

a strong grove, a little fighting unit,

capable of bearing the stormy onslaught,

So the scattered soldiers fall easily

as their strength lies in groups,

absorbing the storms as a unit,

So the trees that have struggled

to survive and sustain

and luckily still survive the axe,

fall and tumble to the airy push,

Weak they are and lonely,

so easily they fall down,

Just like lonely and alienated humans

caught on the island of depression,

far away from the

lush green of human affection and connection

fall prey to

sickness, suicide and killing madness.