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Oct 2014
And so they played they were
Innocent,
But the words in wood
They spoke In black mud
"Wood was"
"Wood is"
"Wood will end"
"Wood will become"
"What had began"
Fear runs fast in young eyes,
As to a father they did run
"Calm down little ones"
And in to woods he took
An instrument of destruction,
So upon wood he did
Hack,
Carve,
Splinter
Pieces now  layed upon the ground,
A splinter did puncture
His finger that bleed upon
Black mudded ground,  
And he dug at hated mud
For words to be seen,
"A splinter"
!Will seal the fate"
"And too wood will consume"
He looked upon the words
And glancing blows,
Now all was splintered
Covered in black mud,
Days had past
Night was calling,
He awoke startled, a burning
Sensation,
Looking where the splinter
Had punctured,  his
Finger unable to move,
Then as the nights did pass
More fingers fell to the numbness
Unable to move,
He awoke
Three nights past,
His hand discoloured
And a elbow locked, so much pain
The fingers now spread out angles were
Distorted,
Altered,
Contaminated,
As the stiffness spread
Arm and hand now
locked in this figure, not natural,
His skin did wrinkle
Not a colour that Is meant to be,
He though he would breath in his last
Outside he ran,
Bare feet did sprint, then for
"No reason"
His feet did stop
Pain seared through his
Appendages
He looked down in horror
Toes rooted to the ground
He reached up
"God what have you done"
And so the skin consumed wrinkled
Like bark his skin did
Manifest
Once only wrinkled
But more like bark from a tree
Wood was destroyed,
It warned in the wood
"Disrespect nature"
"And wood you become"
There is a new tree in the garden
The Mother looks upon this new
Leaved tree
"It looks like your dads face"
"Only just"
The child says,
There father was never seen
But he had paid the heavy price
For the words foretold,  
That wood will consume,
Sap leaks from the tree
Slowly it fell for many months to come
Always seeing but unable to move,
His family sheltered under the tree in
Summers,
Winter,
Rain,
They always kept dry
Under the tree,
And every so often,
A branch would move, to brush up
To be close to his *family.
Poetic T
Written by
Poetic T  On Oblivions Doorstep
(On Oblivions Doorstep)   
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