Alana’s Bread

Alana, a tree dropped fruit,
With their slender stems.
Each, was of her.
Her scent was of petals,
Yet, they were dying.

Alana, trapped in a tree,
One, who’d been cursed.
One, whose heart lingered.

Seeped into decay,
Her wishes were of,
This loathing, dismay.

It was in form, a blessing,
Sent down from above.

The form was a curse,
Turned Alana, wooden,
She bore only,
Withering fruit,
Withering petals,
Withering leaves,

They were, her children.
For water, to starve a tree.

Scent of decay, of murk,
With roses, never,
And fruit, never.
Nothing, to call her own,
Nothing, for seeds be sown.

Each day, she withered,
Alana lingered, distressed.

One fatal day,
Man of wood and steel,
Gave to wood an axe,
Out Alana cried,
“Oh, cruel to the Earth,
I will go, and curse.
The man, who slew me.
As God did for grief.”

Chopping, with brusque desire,
Knew not of Alana in the tree,
Who pressed her lips to the axe,
And threw her curse to be free!

He chopped,
Then stopped,
As though he knew,
Of whom he slew.

 He smelled an aroma,
Of decaying petals,
He recoiled, then swooned,
For Alana gave the curse,
As she rose to the moon.

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