I grow ever towards the useless tree.
Gnarled and twisted, ignored there as carpenters pass the road alongside me. “What is the point of that tree?” they might ask sitting within in my shadow.
I sigh with the winds. Grow sunwise. Reach outward. Deepen.
The stones may know my use. As will the wind. Bird will have a place to talk and shit from.
My words are like leaves in the autumn, cast to the ground and left rot into soil.
Perhaps mycelium will know what use my leaves might be.
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