Kareki Poem by M. Bloom

Hollow. Hollow. Hollow.

Echoes the feeble tree that didn't fall
For fear someone would hear it.
The tree that stood and let the woodrot
Take over its stomach
And let the termites burrow within its vains.
Gnawing it to the core.
Growing up in agony
Up towards the heavens it knew it would not reach in time
As it doubles over
In the shadow of the masses above.

Hollow. Hollow. Hollow.

Echoes the tree made soft with frost
Battered by rain
Warped by wind
Carved with a heart
Never to be seen again
Or cared about in the end.

Hollow. Hollow.

It wilts. It is wilting.
The termites spewing the sawdust from the core.
Spewing the identity.
The components.
The vitals.
The whole.
To the hard earthen floor.

Hollow.

This tree stands
And fakes its existence.
For it has died long ago.
Still feasted on by the woodrot.
And termites.
And those that see nothing wrong.
After all, it is only natural
To be alive.
To look alive.
To be.

Hollow.