Golden Tree. Poem by Derrick Andrews

Start low in the core, of this earth's fragile form,
And implant a mutation, to differ the norm.
Alternation of seed, to create something new,
Fabrication of breed, the mundane we eschew,

And thus, came our product, a shimmering gold,
An entrapment of beauty, both modern and old,
Both sinister and holy, it had its own glow,
Its aura of perfection, of which we don't know.

And though it bore no fruit,
No blood orbs or sea berries,
No sun crescents to be ravished and consumed by spree fairies,
Its only contribution is dispute.

Gorgeous and peaceful, a small white dove,
Fluttering faintly through the skies, just slightly above
Where the true treasure lies, but there's a crow resting there,
Perched upon it so horridly that it seemed unfair.

Assisted by vanity, the dove blindly attacked,
Drove the crow out of the tree, then, lashed at his back,
Though docile by nature, it attacked out of need,
For mankind's nomenclature, is undoubtedly greed.