I am a tree.

Cut me open and see the rings defining my age, my journey.

Trim my branches and try to transform me into something better, more beautiful.

Pick my fruit and gorge yourself on my labor.

Twist my leaves in your fingers and feel the life that I give.

Touch me and feel the deep ridges etched in my body.

I am twisted.

I am old.

But my roots continue on, tirelessly sustaining my life.

I don’t command my roots to support me.

They don’t need to be told.

They see my weathered form and instead of cutting me down, removing me, they pump life into me.

But no matter how much they try, they are helpless when the whir of the chainsaw slices through the gentle song of my branches and leaves rustling in the wind.

They can only stare in horror as my entire life is diminished into a single stump littering the ground of the forest.

It’s okay.

It is time for the end.


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