The Forgotten Twig

I am a twig, on a 

branch, on a tree, by 

a river, that used to be blue.

A fountain, that used to be cruel.

A stream that was beautiful, 

vital and cool.

Angry, (with an insatiable 

hunger); its great, 

strong undertows

swallowed dogs, 

and children,

and broken hearts.

The days became seasons-which 

turned into years,

and I watched mans recompense,

for every wayward soul.

It’s  beautiful  banks, are befouled with

filth-the air, permeated, with urine.

My arthritic limbs, once housed in

lustrous  greens and 

browns, are now brittle, and dull.

I am matte and impaired, and

I fear 

my white, winter jacket.

My tears can’t be seen,

amidst the downpour from the sky.

(I cry for myself), but 

I weep,

-For This World-

is a scourge upon nature.

And each passing soul, those 

young torrents had claimed, was a

cumulative bill, paid back-with 

foul, septic waste.

Now, there’s a bigger storm coming.

Someday soon-Pandora will open

Her box…(so)…Don’t 

waste your breath on me.

Forgotten is the twig.