The Bark

Thu, 03/05/2015 - 19:17 -- bcsmith

Location

The cracks in your trunk chunk together a sort of pattern,

Slivers, bits, and little segments.

Brown-sap, Green-moss and dinky faces

Are seen in the brief slits.

It’s like a mystery.

 

Perhaps you do not perceive anything at all,

Simply protection, or type of skin-like thing.

One hundred years now you have grown

Seen the days pass by again.

Yet I see nothing.

 

Traipsing all over the world with nowhere set in dirt

I do not sit peaceful to grow

But move all about frantic up and down

In order to feel of use and have

A purpose, in this odd giant world.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741