The Writers' Circle

(just a bit of random poetic humor)

I wandered into the forest gold,
To find the purpose of life
But when I arrived in the wood of old
I found not but strife.

My! How the trees fought and strived,
How they grew round and thick.
"What is the meaning of this?" I cried
Wondering if this was a trick.

The giants groaned as they turned to me.
My! How they were fat!
On my life I couldn't see,
Why a tree should look like that.

"Round trees are great!" the nearest said.
"We want to be the best!
So we will get ahead.
We will be better than the rest!"

"But in your quest to be round,
You have lived a lie
You are rooted to the ground
And cannot touch the sky!"

The trees grew quiet as they thought,
They felt they understood.
In their fight to capture what they sought,
They lost that they were wood!

All they needed,
Was sun and earth
And to be seeded
No round in girth!

In their scheme,
Their memories did fly
Of what it was to dream,
Of what it was to never die.

The trees, they thanked me,
And with sleepy sighs
Looked up to see
Untouched skies.

And to this day
Those trees I saw
The people say
Are very tall.

They forgot all their worries,
They reached up high
And now rest their leaves,
Upon the sky.

And what of me, you may ask?
What did I learn, you inquire?
Did I complete my task?
Did my answer I acquire?

I wandered into the forest gold,
To find the purpose of life
And when I left the wood of old
Found that I was right.