Twisted black branches grasp for the sky--
gnarled fingers clenched in eternal drive.
I gaze with disbelief in my eye...
How can this dead tree thrive?
The towering corpse quickens--
wafting with rot as it slowly sways.
Day, by day the bark thickens--
stronger than any axe raised.
Some say the roots delve too deep--
disturbing what sleeps far below.
I hear hushed talks of “He Who Sleeps,
awakened by Death That Grows.”
I believe there is truth to what they see,
I swear the ground shakes beneath that tree.
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