20 Lines

Not much in 20 lines.
And not, wasted in rhymes.

To think of the seedlings route.
How undead is the oak that now spoke.
“Relying on me, the fallen.
You strangle me by my roots.
So blind, you turn to rodents”

Dug down into the core.
Travelled too far south of the seed.
Meaning - too deep a metaphor.
And now we; so selfishly civil,
We don’t ask who this Doctor Greed is
As they inject oblivion into our veins.

Our love is like a scorpion.
The world’s funeral we attend.
So we leech onto the mother.
To pull her into our end.

And yet, in rhymes.
So much waste, 20 lines.