Wayward branches emerging here and there,
The small fir tree grapples toward the sun.
The trunk curves like a roller coaster track
And needles form its very covering.
Other trees have leaves, but this tree none
Only the harsh commodities given to it by God.
"Put me out of my misery!" the tree pleads.
"I am the smallest, most insignificant tree."
A small gust of wind causes the poor structure to waver,
And rain only soaks its scrawny figure.
Dead needles fall upon the dirty ground
And scarce as the needles are, a few stay behind awaiting their destiny.
Birds are singing from the other trees,
But one won't even pass his canopy.
Squirrels hop from branch to branch,
But not in this old tree.
What a lonely tree he is.
All alone he cries in the wilderness.
In the daylight his shape would mold that of an old man's.
In the evening his flailing branches admit
A vast array of horrendous thoughts.
In the night a great grinding noise is heard.
A moan, a crash.
Branches swinging, needles dismembering.
The old tree is down.