Only In Dreams

I had a terrible dream last night:

They’d taken some apples and fixed them up real good,

But they threw you away.

You reminded them of something they once knew.

Sometimes I think about groceries

Lining the sides of a thousand household waste bins

Waiting for a home.

But when things get so low,

I try to think I know

That somewhere someone

Bought some really shitty bags,

And as everything would pour out,

And the horrors of bin juice

Would steer the senses away from the crime,

Some neglected fruit would scurry away

And form a pact with the earth.

There, in the comforting soil,

Something true would grow and grow and grow,

And under my breath I'd say

'Three cheers for Poundland'.

Strangers

The forests rustled knowing that they would have to endure another year

Stealing from one another under the surface of the Earth.

Nobody spoke about it, but they knew.

They all knew.

And as the season took a turn for the worse,

Their eyes could only watch as their lower-limbs ensured the certain death

Of a certain friend who had been down on his luck.

Some would mourn and insist on prolonging its life through the medium of storytelling.

Others would comment on how uneasy it made them feel to co-exist with the dead.

Soon, however, all the memories of this unfortunate tree were forgotten.
Its lifeless being would act merely as a cause of annoyance,

As one would have to repeat itself a little louder

When a sentence was spoken to a distant neighbour,
And key words were lost in the framework of their former friend.

This was the case for a long time, until one fateful day

When word spread of a woodcutter and his crew tearing through the group,

And amidst their screams of terror and the merciless activity

Several would latch their roots onto this indifferent stranger,
And hope against hope that they too would share its dull disposition:

Calm;
Composed;
Resolute.