Undone

Like a sycamore tree
between the old townhouses,
soon to be removed to
what fits the new perspective

What changed the leaves to seasons,

housed once the beloved children.

A painter's muse under the sun

is now a nuisance. 

Uprooted for your narrative,

only parts of me you shall take.

Not the shade, not the life,

only what you think is the rustles I make. 

Soon there shall be drums
played to silence the voice of the once-mighty tree
Chop chop, from branch to branch
echos the papercut of the unsung

It's just the job you say, nothing personal.
One must fit into the square box, 

lets cut the trunk, let it be undone, so you fit in the box,

is now a casket, that holds more than one dead.