Charcoal

They stand baron, lifeless, charred.
Their blackened bark a memory of when the sky was once aglow.
Light.
Natural light.
Pulsing in the clouds,
Hugging the black,
Painting it orange.
It piles out from their limbs,
Pumping,
Pumping,
Like blood from an opened wound.
If no one's there to witness its death, does a tree still scream?

Its stopping now.
The black disappearing.
Dissipating.
Gone.
The Sky left a mournful grey.
The product of the terror crumpled,
Its bark a reminder of its death.
Charcoal.
Like that within the artists hand,
A sad portrait drawn.

They stand baron, lifeless, charred.
Footprints indent the muddied ground,
A reminder of the crime.