A soldier sits in a black birch tree,
but she can’t touch the ground, you see,
‘fore around her ears buzz honeybees —
and so she sits in slick unease.
But this soldier sits with her heart in her lap,
’cause beneath her feet’s a steel mousetrap —
and what cruel oversight, what unkind mishap
would it be that her heart slips from her kneecap.
A soldier clings tight to the trunk;
the forest floor’s layered in chunks
of cold, dead hearts that soldiers’ sunk
from their hopeless, tree-bound bunks.
A soldier sits in a black birch tree,
and she can’t touch the ground, you see,
‘fore with her friends it’s been bloodied;
the bees rumble: you can’t be freed.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Stellular Scribe 