Oak

Oak

I cut down the Oak
I planted for you.

Many were the birds that called it home
as it grew strong and tall.
It was a sight to rival your beauty.

It died when you left.
The birds moved out,
the branches drooped under the weight
of loneliness.
I could not bear to uproot it,
for the hope that you might return
and save us,
but the tree begged to be
released from its pain.

So I swung.

Each hit killed a memory,
a dream,
a promise unfulfilled.
The Oak fell with a sigh of
“Thank you”.

I fired the wood
in the hearth that should have been ours.
The stench of burning hope
clogs my nostrils.
The fire is cold, uncaring.
It burns because it knows
no other way.

Soon, it too will die.

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