A group of thieves found a thriving tree
So they dug it up, then all went to see
The tree had grown from roots of pain
So they were confused on why this tree was sane
Then one realized the tree was made from healing
The guilt it hid over the years was now revealing
The tree started to wilt, slowly dying
They heard the tree’s screams, even its crying
For the tree hid everything to protect its health
It was just not happy for its life and wealth
The thieves felt bad and ran away
Even if the tree would still decay
They knew that tree was once their own
The one that they had used and thrown
But they were not thieves of objects, even if they could
They were the thieves if my innocent childhood
this is my 14th poem, written on 5/30/23
