A red checkered fleece
Wonders through tall oaks
That pose for photos
Waiting to be remembered in time.

Like all of us
We stare at satellites
That try to blend in with city skylines
Praying to the nearest star
That we can be remembered.

Not in the man
In the red checkered fleece though
He practices being mechanical
By repeating the same tasks
Of knocking down
These photogenic trees.

It all is the same you see
Same fleece ,you better believe
Same dirt on his knees
Same dirt that is in his shoes
To remind him
Of his ***** stance
On his actions from his past.

The past isn't the past
If it's accompanied
By the purest of souls.
Each time the trees dance in sync
With the howling winds
He hears the moaning sorrows
Left on his porch side.
On the 3rd of July

Everytime he takes a break
From breaking these trees' dreams,
His hands shake
From his attempts
To cold turkey the drug
Called her eyes.  

His sore veins died in vain
Slithered into these trees,
Hugging the roots of these oaks
That creak from time
That rest on their shoulders

Time
Time is his enemy
As lumberjacks stray from time
As they don't wear watches
When they work
As managers watch watches
To tell them what time to go home However this lumberjack
Slaves over the labyrinth
He created for himself
For the punishment
He feels he deserves.

He digs his tail
Of destruction through these trees.
Hoping that his path to self discipline
Freezes with the autumn snow.