by Nick Gisburne
The mystic trees she touches turn to stone,
A senseless act of sabotage, of spite.
A twisted tyrant, she, and she alone,
Is driven by the depths of her delight.
The forest, every branch and leaf and root,
Gave shelter to the starving, those who fled.
They ran because they feared a brutal boot
Would trample on their dreams until they bled.
The whispers of their nemesis, their queen,
Are suffocating slivers of disease.
The black of granite starves the brown, the green.
It chokes the ancient magic of the trees.
The vermin she despises wait their turn,
But stone will not destroy them. They will burn.
