A letter from your mother

You tread on me, 
Reckless. 
As if it is not me who sustains your breath, 
That breath you take for granted, 
Like all else that you possess. 
You laugh as you try to slice me into pieces,
Or stand by, complicit 
With those meaningless slogans
That leave your mouth in my defence,
That merely soothe your guilty conscience,
Words worse than the cruelty of your hands. 
But, my dear, you need not pity me as you predict my demise,
For it is I who pities you, you with the coldest of fates. 
One day your bones will lie beneath my soil,
All the while a little sapling grows into an oak tree, 
Which the next generations will climb and play under in their innocence – they still have a chance. 
But your neglect of me for the sake of the object of your lust, "success",
It will be but vanity of vanities.
Your corpse will decay, you will be reduced to the dust from which you came, 
Yet I, I will live.