Loyal Slough

I am not a tree, revered even by the weeds

That shriveled trunk, still caressing the shackles of its roots

Devouring deeper, roots or iron chains weaved in greed they are

Yet the tree stands, sways, fanning the air around

And they write verses about the breeze, the breeze and its lilting melancholy.

I am merely but a voracious mind

Sculpted by brick and mortar and kneaded in mammoth vanity

Peeling myself to appear enticing in every eyes, in every eclipse

While my loyal slough lies withered on the frigid path called 'Conscience'.