The Tree

I could tell you what it's about. But then i'd have to kill you.

Erect and tall, it stands up dutifully
With the slimness of a budding youth; unsubstantial
Choked in the slender neck by three prongs
They whisper everything into his ears
The suggestions leech into his clean, white flesh
Spoon-fed, in the dependance of a new born
Because there is nothing else
And the young, mirthless tree stands today
With the grace-
The grace that can only be learnt from a manual.

Not far, a differant tree stands
Knobbly, short and stout
Crouched in the momentary action of a harmonious dance
Shaggy, fly-away strands of leafy branch
Swaying with the illusion of movement
And behold! There is not much around it
That joyous, single entity
Prong-free, provocative, you might say
Though it listens not for it needs not
This is where the children play.