Visitors called to the tree on the hill,
Drawn cautiously by painful wails and moans.
My praises in love to the sun so shrill,
They came at first in concern for my tones.
But in just moments they make healing speak,
Wiping clean the remains of my dried blood.
I wore it to the world, for I am weak,
My roots sip succor from the filth, and mud.
Their fingers trace the echoes of my skin,
Flaking crags speak of a man in dryness,
Rightly starved by the seed fighting my sin.
My mouth flicks my tongue pale and pityless-
"You move on your own for selfish desires,
But you will find naught but fallen empires!"
My visitors, their voices are distraught
In guilt I think, their shame is plain to see.
My brittle lips prattle on burning hot
With a branding love, I preach in pure glee.
Feel the joy within me, as words push forth
Praiseful pronouncments to their sins inside!
They are filthy wretches lacking for worth,
Needing more than anything, barky hide.
They turn away as rage fills up their cells,
I spit hateful implications they cry!
That walking strong as they do for themselves
They still were concerned that my roots were dry.
That retort brings pain. I am the victim!
Inner filth! It is the meat of my hymn!
Looks of disgust painted broad and with depth,
My renewed cries of pain send them away,
But one stops and trembles, his voice wet wept.
Oh Brother! On this hill? You are here to stay!
His fellows plead reasoned encouragements
Pithy heartwarming naturalists.
But his mind is in the seed's battlements,
Soon he'll know just Photosynthesis.
Like I did, he erupts in blood and sprout,
Transfigured from flesh to fiber,
Encased in bark, he'll never know doubt
As he supplies both wafer and cider.
The seed will keep us safe from weather's wear
On this hill, growing for the fruit we bear.
