The Logger.

He rests his hand on the
Firm trunk of the birch
tree and breathes a sign
Of relief. The logger is
gleaming with sweat and
All he can think about is
This scalding hot summer
And how wet his shirt
Is from his precipitation.
He rests his whole being
On the cool grass and
Sets out the tools he
Shall use for the crass
task. Ironic as this
situation is, it’s equally
Cruel. After resting for
A while, he sets out to
Culminate the only
Source of relaxation
And solace. He sets out
To annihilate the tree and
Its peers who provided
Him to efface the hot
Summer from his mind.
He doesn’t think twice
And the demise is with
Out a thought, breaking
All ties with humanity
And compassion.

Has anybody ever thought about people who rest under tress, basking in their shade and then cutting them afterward? No? Then read this poem and feel all the irony absorbing your soul. I hope my poem makes you ponder about this activity that has left my whole being crestfallen.

Good night.
Spread positivity!
Don’t b grumpy,okay?
Good night.

7 thoughts on “The Logger.

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