Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
VanessaRuePoems
kids march to school, merry, hands linked, socks strangling calves, backpacks swelling with milk teeth, dangerous smiles. in the centre they stand, fronds shivering overhead, buttress roots clutching earth like they know what’s coming. bags dropped in a ring, offerings to something older than the walls they study in. fractures komorebi, and in its faded gold i see pareidolia, grinning from the leaves. the tree is temple and witness both. the trunks sway in a rhythm older than speech. a tree at the border warns: don’t take pride in the faces— power is the thing they can’t hold. if, my friend, you see the tree cast out its own, know those who give the orders are across the ocean— safe, distant, very clean. owls, fat with promises, every five years stuff a new child’s face into the stump’s rot and call it a future. the old tree votes unanimously to shed its skin once more— they call it progress, call the rot reform. loosen your roots; the wind doesn’t care which children it strips for kindling.
0
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 7:50 AM UTC
Offerings From Backpack
kids march to school, merry, hands linked, socks strangling calves, backpacks swelling with milk teeth, dangerous smiles. in the centre they stand, fronds shivering overhead, buttress roots clutching earth like they know what’s coming. bags dropped in a ring, offerings to something older than the walls they study in. fractures komorebi, and in its faded gold i see pareidolia, grinning from the leaves. the tree is temple and witness both. the trunks sway in a rhythm older than speech. a tree at the border warns: don’t take pride in the faces— power is the thing they can’t hold. if, my friend, you see the tree cast out its own, know those who give the orders are across the ocean— safe, distant, very clean. owls, fat with promises, every five years stuff a new child’s face into the stump’s rot and call it a future. the old tree votes unanimously to shed its skin once more— they call it progress, call the rot reform. loosen your roots; the wind doesn’t care which children it strips for kindling.
VanessaRue
Written by
VanessaRue
16/F/Mumbai
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 7:50 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem