[An amateur attempt at composing a poem]
A lone tree stands
In the forest, brimming with life.
Intertwining creepers on other trees, rising shoots.
Even the light, sifting through leaves,
Dances, almost teasingly, near the age-old roots.
A young sapling when it was,
Buoyant in its stem, flexible
And eager to soak it all in, be awashed.
Daring antics, it desired to play and swing,
But the forest floor around it had faced drought
And was barely giving.
Holding its stead, it played with whatever came by,
Sometimes a wasp, a bird or simply gazing at the sky.
The soil around it had leeched,
it survived because deep its roots had reached.
A cost was to be payed for living –
Forego companionship, these boundaries cant be breached.
It longed for a brush of twigs, with other trees,
Throw its fruits, sing a song, hear the breeze.
But none would come.
The forest changed, new soil bred different species,
Different, vibrant, arrogant.
For them the tree’s presence – insignificant.
Pale in comparison, ghastly,
The tree could just look on,
Remembering its legacy.
Untold desires it suppressed,
Faking ignorance, adamant it appeared.
All for a belief – being different is not a fault.
A point was proved, but the point was lost.