Tendrils of loose locks hang in the air,
Off the arms of dark, course and crippled wood.
The belly of the the stature is dark and corrupt,
She may have been here for a long time.
The wisp of soft hairs slink along its' form,
And wrap around her, hiding her skin.
So tall and beautiful and teeming with life,
I don't suppose she could ever be mine.
She raises her arms in triumph and pain,
Supporting so much on her nimble shoulders.
The air moves between her boughs, she creeks and groans,
But will not break easily, though they try.
Sunken into the earth, she is cold and stationary,
But she inspires life to dance and spring forth.
She cries and howls in the night to be free,
Throwing her hands into the stars up high.
She bends and curves around her persecutors,
And subdues her own intentions and will.
Moving, alluring, and pushing aside any hate.
She'll stand tall against all odds and pressure.
From a distance she is nimble, weak and oppressed.
A mere finger could break her in two.
But she is strong, fierce, and silently stating:
She is there. And more than for your leisure.

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