My memory, is a fallen tree.
Amongst jungles that struggle with deforestry.
As an infant, a lone flower bloomed.
In a place where a garden would soon consume.
Others fostered it, planted the seeds,
Did their best to pluck out the weeds.
It continued to grow, my mind was a yard.
Neatly tended and trimmed, the labor was hard.
I learned to ride a bike, a rose bush sprouted.
When I first said “I love you,” and meant it I shouted:
"Look, a new tree! I want it to grow!
I desire a jungle, where rich rivers may flow.”
So I poured out my soul, I studied and tried,
The flowers, trees, and bushes only multiplied.
The jungle was mine. A sea of lush green.
Nobody could help but admire the scene.
I was on top of the world, the highest of highs.
That is when the first flower died.
I cried, I cradled it’s remains.
"But you have a full jungle!" The people proclaimed.
But I couldn’t help but think, that this was where it started,
The mind I once knew got sick and departed.
The trees, one by one, fell to their knees.
Begging me, “Victoria, you must save us, please!”
But I frowned, there wasn’t much left to do.
The people with lawnmowers and axes knew.
Like dominoes, things started to fall.
Green to brown. Life to death. That which was tall,
Fell. Now I am left alone.
What was this place that I called my home?
Now my memory is just one of the fallen trees,
It’s death dominates my mind amongst other things.