trees swathed in blood

dripping onto the hardened earth

shrubs swollen with puss

oozing their open wounds onto shivering grass

flames licking the darkened bark

dropping ashes onto packed dirt

the slightest breeze depresses these trees

making them cry to their cruel god

why? why must we die

if only to breathe life to your morbid pleasure?

no one ever answers

they just take pictures by the roadside

as postcard souvenirs

And here&#039s a happy haiku to follow:

Wet leaves on asphalt

Black canvas: a nature morte.

I park on low art.

Posted: October 24, 2004 at half past five.