When it was once pink

The pink petals against a monotone grey, like a Zumba dancer in a ballroom.

The scents of vanilla and rose, wrestling with the intoxicating smokestacks.

The taste of ash, a foreigner to the tongue.

The dark wood, smooth as the dank alleyways in between.

The wind sings a tender hum as the background singers honk at each other in anger.

The chatter rambles on despite the unheard screams.

The roots outstretch across the pavement, yearning for freedom.

The sap slips down like tears shed from a widowed wife. Scum sticks as fungus stretches across its trunk.

The tree is but a mere sapling in the concrete confusion. 

Its branches twist against the light posts and plastic. 

Just a bandage over a burn wound.

A mask over an identity.

A mockery of its meaning of beauty and violence.

Born in a metal maze. For the aesthetics of it.

Like the animals in captivity once did. The cherry awaits freedom.

It awaits relief.

It awaits the time when it was once all pink.