A Partial Perspective On Trees

1:12 AM 29/8/2000 by Chronofus


I never used to care if a tree fell amongst it's mob,

I mean what was the point? It's just a tree, its doing it's job.

And when it's gone it has a use for all the other things,

The little squirmy animals and the birdie as he sings.

And we know in time another tree will grow to take its place.

That's just the way it is in lifes perpetual race.

But now that tree has changed its shape, and I see it's no tree at all.

That the cunning tree was me, and the murky forest was the world.

And now I am confused because I know the tree will fall.

And I start to wonder if it will affect any one at all?

And you know I am not sure what this tree really means,

For in a world of illusion nothing is as it seems.

For the tres got me wondering about the forest where he grows,

Is it a wild natural forest or one planted in neat rows?

Because I think it's very important to the question of the tree,

If it's bound by a gardener or left to grow free.

For it's got me wondering if the tree grows as it should,

If some unseen hand is guiding it just so it can make some better wood.

For once the seed has fallen and the harvest has been sown,

Is this tree a lesser one for having grown on its own,

Or is this tree a better one, all wild and woolly in its ways,

To have lived it's own mistakes as it passed along its days?

Or should every tree be the perfect one on the guided path,

If all it does every day is as the guiding hand asks?

For it's got me wondering about who wants to hear if this wood falls,

Because it's on this point of interest the whole question stalls.

A tree that's been growing, just to be so it can be felled,

Is it a tree at all, or a spirit that's been quelled.

And the tree that's grown wild, and has no final productive use,

I don't think anyone ever noticed it if you want to hear the truth.

For if you are the tree in rows that were neatly planted,

You will be partially noticed, though your wood will be taken for granted.

And if you are a wild tree, and can't grow to perceived perfection,

You can't possibly be noticed if you can't inspire affection.

And the rare wild tree that appears to have grown to the ideal,

It will be held up as a god by gardeneres with religious zeal.

For they seem to think that perfection is the way to be,

For anything that wants to consider itself a tree.

And then I start to laugh that they have no imagination,

For they hide their own inadequacies with their adulation.

Come on your silly tenderers, try & get a grip,

Because further away from the real world you are starting to slip.

So as we start to & fro over trees, forests and the like,

And we spar on semantics of meaning all through the long night,

We should stop and really address the whole question of the tree,

I think we should let it go and just leave them all be,

So if you think it's important if a tree fell amongst it's mob,

I think you'd first better sort out just what is its job.

Was the tree made for growing or was it made for cutting,

Because no tree has ever grown and meant absolutely nothing.