I am the last tree in the worldI am the last tree in the world

I
am the last tree in the world. My branches are a canopy. Their mirrored shade the floor. The walls have long since broken. And unhinged is the door.

Around me powdered stone. The dust of ages worn to nothing by an unrelenting sun. The cries of species lost to time lie fossilized and numb.

And in the waste, enshrouded by the torrid air, a shadow moves. Someone is coming home.

I am the last woman in the world. My feet are cracked, foundation slowly giving ground. My skin is parched and flaking off like paint. I have no structure.

But I am homewards bound.

I see the tree, its open doorway beckoning. I hesitate, but still go in. To coolness, bliss and reckoning.

They say that on the end of days, when men have killed creation, a new world will arise. Where all ends meet.

I sit here. Waiting.

I am the last thought in the world. I tumble round and round. I fire neurons in a dried out brain, a house condemned of memories, a hallway ‘twixt the garbled and the sane. I seek expression, but there is no sound. But silence speaks it’s lullaby and words my name.

As Freedom.

I am the last leaf. I am the last fall. I am the last touch.

I…I
am the last tree in the world. My branches are a canopy. Their mirrored shade the floor. The walls have long since broken. And unhinged is the door.

Around me powdered stone. The dust of ages worn to nothing by an unrelenting sun. The cries of species lost to time lie fossilized and numb.

And in the waste, enshrouded by the torrid air, a shadow moves. Someone is coming home.

I am the last woman in the world. My feet are cracked, foundation slowly giving ground. My skin is parched and flaking off like paint. I have no structure.

But I am homewards bound.

I see the tree, its open doorway beckoning. I hesitate, but still go in. To coolness, bliss and reckoning.

They say that on the end of days, when men have killed creation, a new world will arise. Where all ends meet.

I sit here. Waiting.

I am the last thought in the world. I tumble round and round. I fire neurons in a dried out brain, a house condemned of memories, a hallway ‘twixt the garbled and the sane. I seek expression, but there is no sound. But silence speaks it’s lullaby and words my name.

As Freedom.

I am the last leaf. I am the last fall. I am the last touch.

I…