Illum

The round table is a ring of blood
And in the center for all to see
a hollow tree on bended knee
No leaves to bloom so none to fall
Its bears no fruit
It has no roots.
But seasons change
And every year its trunk grows thicker
Its branches stretch into the sky look like they’ve been thru winter
Under the mask of oxygen
It released deadly toxins in
To all that gathered round.

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