hypocritepoet

I used to be much stronger.

Full of voids And dark places

Where should be The fiber of a white heart

Is just dry-rot of lies Untrustworthy sponginess.

Maelstrom not of peace Or the strength of honesty

Just a slow, quiet— Disintegration.

Invisible to the village, Seen is armored bark,

Majestic heights, Boughs over all the earth

Shading foliage And luscious fruit.

Visages of grandeur, This one.

But hollow shells don’t stand The storms of life

In time, the fruit and the shade Get the message: no real sustenance.

But can a good tree produce worthless fruit Or the rotten fine?

The tree is confused: Feels the rot, knows the hollow—

But sees the fine fruit and shade So someone says;

“a rotten tree produces fine Before becoming rotten.”

But this is human reasoning? The Great Teacher said:

the tree Is one or the other, Not both.

The tree has hope For the fruit is fine without question.

And maybe the tree just has a hollow Wherein Mister Owl may dwell.

The tree thinks this is fine, For who would not welcome

Wisdom on its boughs And in its bosom.

‘Then again,’ thinks the tree, ‘The owl didn’t help Solomon.’

I think I may never see A poem sadder nor more beautiful

Than this poor, but lovely Heartless tree.

How it will crackle And hiss

‘Pon the Fire.