As we sought our answer,
We had slain that which stood before us,
Slicing at the knuckles of vines as
They receded with malice.
We braved the innocent with little thought or remorse,
Merely in search of an aesthetic.
Enter The Walking Tree.
Stoic with traces of grace and nobility,
He championed four legs,
Wandering the amazon with humility.
¨Press forward, and you shall find your answer.¨
He perservered with a reverence to his homeland.
A deep, admiring silence was paid to this noble creature.
Our necks were kissed by the envoys,
Pierced veins injected essence
Our arms and legs carressed by this fluorescent presence.
And as Dusk fell upon us,
So did the weight of our poisons.
We laid in the deep rust with no visibile horizon.
With calloused skin and a softer heart,
He clutched my shoulder.
With a warmth that thickened the lyrics, he told me:
This is not ours.
No matter how many lines you draw on maps,
No matter how many signs you post,
You cannot take it.
With a smile, he turned away from the path,
Slowing his pace with every step.
His arms outstretched,
as if cultivating an embrace.