The carving was done by an amateur, but his eyes saw none.
He whined and held onto control, but his heart was done.
He spiked, he rooted he soiled within the soil.
He claimed pressure on priorities, they noted the TOIL.
His sides contained small pockets of rot.
Roots peeping near forget-me-nots.
The ants crawled up the squirrels scurried down.
A century of life forgotten as they chop off from the crown.
Through the skies, he falls, in silence from here.
The vibrations felt hard by the heartbeats quite near.
But Mr Jones needs a new couch.
A hundred years mean nothing when we want for ourselves.
Written by Unique Inspired by The Huntsman