The fallen king. They chopped down his loyal subjects, leaving him to stand alone. They took his crown of glory, little by little. They left him lopsided, desperate to regain what was his. He began rotting from the inside, a sickness taking over. They deemed him dangerous, asked how much to take him down. Now he lay in piles in the blistering sun. His legs, arms, and head; spread out where his cooling shade once was. Children climb upon his grave, robbing him of his dignity. They do not feel the pain of the fallen king.
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This is part of a series I've written about trees. This particular tree was a beautiful, old tree that was recently cut down at my church.
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