There is a farm, awaiting an oak to tumble and fall.
I am not sure…
I would have the same glorious, gall.
Roughing it out,
insidious and meek, hands partaking the thanks…
And, the giving.
Could I forbade this bulk of life and give it, allowance.
Heavy husk may overcome me.
And, saunter the words,
‘it were not mine to take.’
Alas, the hulk will stay contained.
And, here the tree shall remain.
Hanging above, nothing but a trap minus the noose.
Perhaps, the sullied hands, be right, for those who dare to cut an impediment loose.