Look at me…
You know I’m standing right here,
Down where the ground touches my feet.
You’re high up on the highest branch,
Picking rotting fruits from a dying tree.
While I stand here with a basket of fresh ones,
Asking the squirrels to replace yours quietly.
Look at me…
You know when this tree was in its youth,
Was the time I was first able to see
You in that golden dress which they admired,
And you silently cried as the rough edges cut your skin.
But your tears couldn’t hide from me.
I know it was late, I should have come early;
The leaves were not as green as before, I see,
Yet they had colour enough to last eternity,
Before they turned brown.
Look at me…
I helped you make the dress you like,
As the smooth corners healed your sheen.
I picked the flowers myself but told the birds
To give them to you quietly,
Maybe because I wasn’t deigned enough to face you;
Or maybe because they say less of your beauty,
And more of the dresses you wore even if they hurt you,
But you liked my dress a little more;
Still you didn’t know me.
Look at me…
You know I’m standing right here,
My feet now on the sand in the scorching heat.
I know you feel my presence now, you can’t deny,
My eyes caress your hand now and then,
As they slowly find less tears in them as you turn empty.
You have learned to live with the fake flowers you receive,
You’ve caught the sneaky squirrels who kept you comfortable;
As you find comfort in the stench of dead dreams,
Which prevents the birds from scaling the skies.
Look at me…
You know I’m still standing here,
My legs bleed as the ants eat through my skin.
They love that odour, and now you live on it,
They killed the squirrels, they killed the birds,
They kill everything that breathes and yet you sit,
Rotting fruits devour your voice.
You don’t need to cry for help, you need only move your lips;
And you do, but not the way I want you to.
You chant their dirge as one of them,
I hold my flowers in hope they ward off the reek.
As the ground swallows me, my insides hurt,
Before I cry your name full of vowels;
As a last chance, so what I’m unworthy?
It’s the last chance for you to look at me…
And you do,
But not the way I want you to…
As I perish in peace,
Knowing the truth.
But at least you looked at me…
I wish he would stand forever,
The one and only dying tree.
The Living Writes 