Oh forests of old, you sway in the wind.

  Of emerald treetops, of the same veins of your leaves, of the same pattern as the neurons shocking our brains.

  Oh forests of old, your roots burrow into the soil. Are you searching for your crown?

  Among fellowships and kingdoms of evergreen, of that army of redwood blight, of your holy seed of wisdom; what do you demand of the world?

  You were never an apex predator. You create from the life of another.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Your screams are no screech, rather a pungent odor of rotten eggs. Your poplars are dwindling.

  Yet you have dominated this world by your rule. You are the very definition of life. Are we the very definition of evil?

  While you burn alive in the homes you have encased yourselves in, we cry:

  My pockets have betrayed me. My one true love? Gone without a trace! Bargained in the blink of an eye.

  Art thou my soulmate? My one and only who shall liberate me? The one who shall come back in my most dire circumstances?

  I hearken to the wind. I can brush the sensation of the water running in the creek. I can hear my blood running through my very veins. I can taste the sweet ash of your kind's charred skin.

  You have been wrong to chafe me. You have been ignorant to my pleas. You have let my gluttony consume me.

  My purse is but empty. My head is without thought. Yet my cry is not mournful. It is echoing with the chasm of poverty.