The B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. Chronicles

My tree stands alone

In the midst of a

Vast grassy field.

 

Allow me to introduce to you,

A place where time and reason

Both must yield.

 

I come here often

In my mind

When my heart is weak of feeling

Towards mankind.

 

It is my one and only

True salvation.

But, we are taught,

A shameful destination.

 

Vertigo!

 

Ecstasy at a stand still.

The stories this tree could tell.

 

The dream is the same

Time and time again…

I emerge on to the scene

Hypnotically focused upon my tree.

 

The tree………………

 

The root of all my evil.

It awaits me;

And as I draw near,

In my state of slumber

I can hear

My girls’ voice

Beckoning with fear.

 

“I won’t be coming home dear.”

 

I’d ask you to join me for a picnic ’neath my tree—

Cool in the shade.

But I know you are timid and frail

And one must not be afraid.

 

Color, creed and status

Lay defenseless

Here or anywhere

Around the aura

Of this wilderness cathedral.

 

For the tree is my stage

And each blade of grass, a spectator

Filled with curious envy

 

The sun is my spotlight

Beaming down hard

upon my every move.

 

My subconscious directs

And northeastern winds supply a subtle groove.

 

Ahh, placid animosity.

 

Peace and tranquility

Stem from this tree.

I must have some,

I must take a leave…

 

So I climb the tree

And give it my all.

And the rope around my neck

Breaks my fall.

 

And now I see

And now I crawl

Upon dirt floors

….in an ancient hall.

© 1991, 2001, 2012, 2016 Mark Rogers

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