A couple short poems.

Grounded in Loneliness, I walk under a tree.
That tree once proud and all seeing,
stands with it's brunches cut, not reaching.
Dieing it turns grey.
Yet from the dieing tree,
a bud grows from what was once a branch.
Delicate and fresh it grows from the past
reaching out, fighting for life.
As foot prints circle, the branch follows in my path
wrapping around it's lifeless trunk.
If I break this growing twisting branch,
Will it set me free from this circle in the ground?
Or will I lose the life I've taken for granted?




The king of the heap,
Looks down onto the junkyard,
That is his kingdom.
Nobility of refuge,
Emperor of rubbish.
His frame thinning on four hooves
starving for life...
Or is it to live?
Below him is his kingdom of rot,
a void.
King of the heap.
ruler of nothing.