End of Story

The hot, dead tree enraged me.
The leaves burned off and my future lay in their ashes.
My burnt skin smelled of injustice.
An injustice had been served to me.

I crossed my arms and awaited the bitter, bitter end of my story.

The roots of bitterness grew quickly.

They met something coming up from below:

An eye,
an all-seeing eye
and it was looking that way,
and it took away the long, deep roots of bitterness
that had grown under my hot, dead, ashen tree.

I uncrossed my arms.

I walked on the sand and was not burned because the eye had told me the way to go.
I came to the water and roots of sweet things began to grow.

And that is where the bitter, bitter end of my story washed away
because I was home.