Perched up on stumps,
Weightless lumps:
Foul odored ogres,
Craving crazing vultures,
Picking eyes for pies,
Picking claws at jaws,
Ears for their fear
To hear their screeching;
Their cold blood sapping;
Soaking leaves;
Falling trees to steal their rings,
To **** their singing,
To end their scratching branched voices scrape the streaking air:
A current of palpable energy.

These ogres drain and gain one more breath.

One more- to be saved from death.
How tragic a sight to see
Is when the ogre becomes the tree heaving and wallowing,
Begging, crawling the earth in hope of breath or birth;
In hope of resurrection.

But how tragic it is an ogre must
Break so many backs to gain it back;
To strive to live when their lives are
Less than nothing.

And the eager ogres cry crimes;
Lay in lies;
Drip through time:
Vultures circling,
Craving,
Crazing,
To feed their need,
To give to a life not worth a strand.