Walking Tree

It moves again, with a single bound it appears to dance without the wind. The sound of a roar echoes in the woods. Not man, nor monster, but something much worse. The limbs twisted in multiple directions, she stands with little but a sinking ground beneath her. The lichen and moss coat her, paint her green. But all there is is red. By the end, not a single leaf can be seen The seams seemed to forget the dream. Rooted she is The ground still churning at her feet. There it goes again, a walking tree. She has forgotten a face No eyes nor ears A laurel of thorns and a trail of tears To ends of the Earth she will search for home She will never know Think of her as the wind growls cold The icy chill as men put her to their swords The Walking Tree still roams free