Trees and Power Lines

I start as something small,

no more than a seed.

Thrown against the dirt, yes,

but king amongst the weeds.

I send my roots out searching,

soldiers on the hunt:

they raze the ground around them

with weapons bold and blunt.

We grow so slow together,

my vassal weeds and I.

We reach our aching limbs out,

toward the ever-hidden sky.

And when we break the surface,

I sit alone and stare

at the towering pines above us

with their lords and legionnaires.

I will stand among them.

Above them, even so.

I turn my eye to ready troops,

and bellow to them: “grow!”

I cast my roots out farther,

we toil, pillage, steal;

anything to be stronger,

to make my kingdom real.

We create a mighty nation—

what a powerful thing am I!

I lord above the weeds and dirt,

king of all but sky.

I turn my hungry gaze to them,

those patronizing pines!

There they stand beneath me,

afraid to cross my lines.

But in my glory, wonder,

and triumphant bouts of praise,

I do not hear the thunder,

I do not feel their gaze.

I look amongst the leaves then,

and see my fool mistake.

I have crossed the lines

no king should ever break.

I see the enemy approach,

his weapon firm in hand.

He cuts my crown and kingdom,

he carves off half my land.

It does not hurt exactly,

for I do not feel pain.

But something in me quivers,

and withers all the same.

I am not a titan.

I’m barely even strong.

Today my hopes have fallen,

and all my dreams are gone.