Trees

And the poets are in the tallest trees
Thinking they can find a hole in the sky
And see beyond our shell
Hands grow sore
And some lose their grip
Never to see the top of the tree
Their spines smack the forest floor
Leaving them to look at the stars once more
Complications in the constellations 
Too many questions to even pick up a pencil
So let the poets cry themselves to sleep 

Those who reach the top aren’t much better off
Balanced on breakable branches 
The poets rip their desperate fingers into the universe 
And look out in horror at the hole they made
Unfortunately familiar with themselves
They know too much and more
So the sensitive souls decide to slip
And let themselves fall through the forest