Spirit of the forest

The tree is strong and silent at last,

It watches and waits for seasons to slip safely past

Its tangled branches reach out absorbing the condensation,

as if seeping the final rays of hope from the newest generation

My soft skin brushes against its sticky sap

Pouring out like a leaking tap

The bumpy tree trunk, pale as bone

And here I sit all on my own,

At last I am alone, 

dreaming that one day nature may be accepted

Bare branches, open target, to deforestation and its effects

The axe still chops incessantly piercing the skin

And it seems that the season that hurts the most, is the one that is man made

As tree after tree is cut down the glimmer of hope that is left dies,

Just like the lives of many falling trees, and the hopes of our insensitive lies

Lies that we may stop cutting down trees and that cruelty to the forest never happens

Yet it does

The spirit of the forest they call the ghost gums, 

And so they are, as they cannot inspire real change

We are the ones accountable for our actions, and it is our duty to save the trees