Wood.

Wood.
Different species, all the same.

Painting over it doesn't cover up what it is.
Painting other things to look like it doesn't make them wood.

The lines it bears trace its history.
All the twists, turns and hardship.
Each set of lines unique.

The tree grows and grows and dies in the cold.
It's cut down and made into something new.
It's cared for, sanded, polished, made beautiful.
Made fake.

Used for so many things.
Doors, to keep people out.
Beds, to invite people in.

Eventually, the woodworms come,
Eating away at it.
Nothing stops them.
It rots at their command.
The slightest pressure breaks it apart once they're finished.

The rotten, decrepit wood is burned
Giving out a bright light as its last goodbye
Burnt to remove all traces that it ever existed.

But its ashes forever remain.