The Tree Stump

Its feet emerging from the leafy carpet.
Its skin clothed in moss.
The scars of its past still haunt it
and its head is sad and lost.
Its skin crawling with life,
Although its soul has gone.
The death in the air like mice;
Always there, but never sung.

One day, it used to sway,
It used to sing and dance and smile.
In the grass, it would lay,
The wind in its hair, they’d lay all the while.

And now it thrives in the dark and rain.
And now it’s all alone.
And now it dies all over again
With every rock and stone.
Its tears leak like sap,
Moistening its mossy attire.
Its past surrounding it at its lap
Brooding in the mire.