Sheltering beneath their shade, seeking relief in amongst such resplendent foliage, each examined fronds venation spells out a guilty name. Another story told, a masterplan mapped out, unfolding within the intricate display of veins. Whispered curses passing through capillaries; a terrible infection spreading out in all directions as a person’s pain and poison is made manifest.
Have you ever seen such a collection of never greens?
Inconsumable to man or animal, it’s clearly understood that such diseased wood is of no-good use, fit for only one singular purpose. It takes a clear and functioning mind, sharper than yours, mine, or the rusted axes we all choose to grind, to chop and cut such a sickening, diseased copse down to a manageable size. Then, and only then, is the tainted timber finally free to be utilised appropriately.
Carve those sticks!
Make a giant crucifix!
And, as impossible as it seems, impale oneself upon the twisted thorns, hammering nails into your palms, arms and fingers until such alarming self-harm, such frightening self-sacrifice, justifies an existence spent begging absent fathers for pardons to unforgivable sins.
Each feeble limb, each branch, and the chance it may finally bring; my warm blood is in its sap, your blood is in the morning dew.
It was then that I knew. It’s not just a you tree.
It’s a me tree too.