Lost Lichen Poem: Monkew

Monkew by Caden738

It Grows In The Sands.

Its Leaves are its wings.

Its Branches are hands.

Its Roots are like slings.

And its name is Monkew.

Monkew, Monkew, Monkew.

Hair covered in the good Gods dew.

Your face made of vines.

Your breed more common than pines.

But where have they gone?

Gone, Gone, Gone.

Your relatives eaten like prawn.

Served on a platter.

Not one felt they they matter.

Now your all that’s left.

Left, Left, Left.

Your kind is mans theft.

Once beautiful, and full of might.

Now angry, and full of spite.

Will you get Revenge?

No You will not.

You’ll be dead in a week.

Turned into a cot.

Eaten by birds beak.

And its name was Monkew.

This is a Lost Lichen Poem

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