I am a slave in an uprising discontent with American society
Yet seen as a shadow beneath Sara Teasdale
asking for more sky to write my poems in
The whisper of sound moves as the wind blows
and death rushes to the root
One strong blow of the mouth
and all that it has lived for will vanish.
The branches and its children fall slowly to the ground
and all you hear is the loudness of the silence of the lines
crying,
and begging
for once to just live