the slaughter

The Slaughter.


A spruce forest stand at attention,
brainwashed trees
do not know of the guilty secret
they grow on the grave
oak trees fir and elm, that were not deem
suitable as Christmas trees,
chopped down and made into matchsticks
and tooth picks, the ultimate indignity.
Stupid spruce, they have been promised
glittering uniforms and bright light
and replanting to an eternal life
come the new, year their corpses will
be dotted
about in the landscape.
Someone should tell the children.