Lauren Fitzgerald

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The Last Tree

There she stands, on her worn out feet
Perched on the quaked, lifeless soil
Her fragile branches pressing against the eternal heat
While their last yet brazen leaves cling on despite turmoil
All it takes is a leap of faith
To continue living even when the unlike stops
To preserve and keep alive one’s green wraith
As the mirage of an approaching elixir runs through her lifeless lops.
Her legs, now sore from the continuous wait for a fictional bliss
The tiny flicker of hope now slowly fades away
There she stands, lifeless and dull
As her timid leaves subtly wither by
As the mahagony’s life is breaking apart, her will power grows less
She plummets onto the crumbling sand
Her tears and blood almost immediately absorbed
There lies the mahagony, with almost the same grand
Will anyone ever know the pains she sorbed?
Will anyone know how determined she was?
For the answer lies in this savannah of dust
That is lifeless except for her.
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