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Mixing pink and white
Blossoms a tree of wonder
Leaves fall from the breeze
Watch with wonder
And from that tree that is the universe
that springs the universe
there’ll spring an apple
and when it falls
it falls forever
so that it can never be rotten
never be eaten
never be tainted by a world
in which it never is to enter
ever suspended
but never submitted
it will be the most beautiful
pristine apple
that ever was created
ever was alive
with its creation
this apple
will be the bliss untasted
long live that apple
that never will live
here it will stay
untouched
forever.            

-                              

i’ll eat that apple though…

i f*cking love apples!
Last night a tree whispered on the breeze,
To a girl, half-dozed in wakeful dreams,
With the groaning darkness yet retreating,
The processing dawn was ever reaching,
She stumbled here - Beneath his bulge,
She crumbled here - In weeping deluge,
Half-drowned, half-famished, to seek refuge,
When she heard the tree sounds, murmuring,
Which pierced the darkness, murdering,
From that old Oak so bold and bright,
He whispered with his treely might,
Where she sat safeguarded from the night,
“I am a tree, hardly alive, but wakeful and ever watching”
“I’ve seen many creatures warm and keen,”
“Grow cold upon this muddy green.”
“Yet here you wandered, pure and serene”,
“Whilst here I wavered, tall and lean”,
“I thought this was your dying scene”
So the tree whispered words unseen,
To all but her, who at eighteen,
She sat beneath him wild and mean.
The tree spoke wise and tactfully,
With arboreal tonality,
“Don’t write this self-told tragedy!”
“Awake! And get gone happily!”
“I’ve seen the moons that mast and fade”
“And many creatures stalk the shade”
“You’ve languished here in moon-lit chill”
“Don’t linger for that cheaper thrill!”
“Your puke is soaking in my roots”
“Take off upon those shaking boots”
“This life is yours and yours to spill”
“Now leave me on my little hill”
She shivered on his wooded form,
His withered branches bowed forlorn.
He brushed her head with leaf and thorn,
“The world is yours, and yours to dream”
“But memories aren’t as they seem”
“The worst is best forgotten,
“The rest will soon be rotten”
“Your pain is so ill gotten”
“But not so grave. Walk on. Be brave!”
She staggered off, a drunken kook,
Then in one final last rebuke,
The tree spoke quiet, not to *****,
The girl who gave him one last look,
“So long, and Thanks, for all the puke.”
I'm coming back as a tree
I could leave now
For all I care

The tree is an Ash
Sturdily bends in
In the sharpest winter

Breezes blows the boughs
The waves from the Pacific Ocean
Are jealous of her cadence

I'll take my leave now
I've seen all I need to
When you hear the wind look up

I've returned
Rooted, alive, without a care
Let the cages of birds freely fly to me.
Alienpoet Jun 17
You are more radiant than the sun
my words lean upon
you like gravity pushes us down
but in those sounds
are the meanings that ground
my very existence
and life
if anything relates to you
it tends to send me into a dreaming state
Scheming late
to win you at all costs
in this game of life
which trees survive frosts
to bear fruit
like actions
you are more than a distraction
you are my everything
and yet I keep coming back
and I am taken
my heart is awakened not bored
I live aboard your wishes
which dance like dandelion seeds
on the wind
I love you I love you I love you lots.
Bri Jun 9
life is a tree-
it grows,
grows,
grows,
but then it falls
or breaks
or splinters into a million pieces
those million pieces are salvageable,
sometimes.
when they aren’t they rot,
rot,
rot
a rock hits the tree
and the bark falls away,
leaving the tree bare and unprotected
the weather and the world fight to pull it down
the tree stands tall,
sometimes.
when it doesn’t it will rot,
rot,
rot
broken and battered-
splintered
Shofi Ahmed Jun 6
There are roses.
A sniff of that—
turns the trees into sharp thorns.
Sit still.
Secured. Guarded.

Then there is a Tree,
meticulously crafted,
big-footing from the deepest deep—
not only skin deep
but the beauty is on—
deep-bone skeleton.
The pixels on the upper layer stay clear,
and perfect balance holds below, through every layer.

A day fades from the rose,
dimmed—even at soothing eve.
Not quite.
It walks in chiaroscuro,
through shades of tangerine,
slipping into the thick of night—
never growing thin—
until it catches the set sun hiding,
eyeing the new moon’s skin.

It stands,
ready for bold conversation,
as the stars emerge,
whispering
through the seven skies.

Wide-eyed death—
inevitable—
rushes in
on beauty’s stake.
But how long did it last?

Before the blink of an eye,
the tree was back in bloom.

In watching galaxies—top of mind—
it grows again,
quietly,
on the sublunary Earth.

Math of the matter
couldn’t be closer,
nor farther—yet it is,
as surely as cumulative math,
with countless truths under the skin,
unfound until the equation fits.
It can appear with precision,
or stay hidden from sight—
under the sun, or the moon, alike.

Sharpest sharp cuts: linear.
Deepest deep, yet curves—
smoothest golden spirals.

The solid full-stop dot
in Ma spaces
springs the sweetest—  
a panache showcase
that conquers height
and endures time.  

A sniff of it stirs the water—
boundless,
no sea, no ocean, no river,
just flow, forever.
It bumps into paradise above—  
roots stretching,
never ceasing.
Deep down, it rocks the pearls,
up high melts the clouds,
rains soft on the glass—
which breaks
into pieces of a star.

Breaks open wide—yet no angle.
Deep down, it never fractures.
Every line, on every lane,
curves inward
to its digital bedrock:
non-linear, vibrating numbers.

Day in, day out—
no ending at the end.  
A topological fold
opens and rewraps.

There is a tree:
overhead and on the ground.
Keep an open eye—  
it keeps up!
Steve Page May 31
Like a Yew tree
in its fifth century.
Like a June Beetle
in its fifth month,
burying its eggs in the soil.
I pay little heed
I give no value
to the boasts of kings.
Theres a mighty Yew tree in the grounds of Waverly Abbey in Surrey, that is worth a long gaze.
In a world full of trees, I'm a daisy.
I don't understand trees--what they see.

Yet I whisper secrets to the trees,
Make sure that nobody sees.

Then I dream of words like falling rain,
They wash me clean, but don't end the pain.
My teacher asked us to draw ourselves as trees. There were kids who drew: trunks, branches, willows and leaves. But I drew a Daisy. Surrounded by trees.
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