We’re all told from quite
A young age that we are mere
Twigs on a tree that’s forever
Growing, that there are branches,
A huge trunk and roots of history
Behind us, good things, bad things
That we are just unaware of.
Every little shoot that buds into
A leaf year after year,
It’s out of our control.
Twigs can easily snap, then plummet
To the ground. Maybe it’ll be
A dogs toy, or possibly a stick
For a child to poke the dirt with.

We are supposedly from this big
Tree, that has far more life
And meaning than any of us individually.
So why do I feel like a tiny twig
That’s fallen?


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