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What mania does Ana have that goes mutilating forests?
Is it the abundant leaves?
The resilience of the trunks?
The branches that kiss the sky?
The roots interlaced with soil?
It must reside in the bark,
The essence of outer tissues,
The texture that covers life,
The layers protecting syrup.
Such is the verdict in the dilemma now solved.
It takes a viscious conviction
To attack and consume skin.
A vindictive type of thirst
Housing the oath to erase
From excessive flesh its lush.
She, persistent precursor to fall,
Winter's everlasting lover,
Blizzard queen of dried up limbs.
If I am to be the tree,
She's the weather that destroys it.