Photo by Andy Watkins in Unsplash

The Pruning of A Society

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They cut back the trees this morning.

They call it “pruning.”

Now, the trees are bare.

In angry frustration

I care for you.

One moment love,

Then love’s subdued.

The bare trees

Don’t cry like me

When like a wood chipper

You grind my branches —

Cut me back

I yell, complain,

Unlike trees.

Torn, the flesh

Of emotional strife.

The comings and goings

Of hope, then loss.

You ravage my branches.

Wood chipped away.

I’m bare.

The trees are bare

And pissed on.

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