The Tree

Scratched and bent
And twisted in ruin,
The tree is easily
Incinerated.  
It sips from the tears
Of those who are dead
And watches with
Knotted fists.
It stretches far
And strangles others
Without a backward
Glance.
It seems to only
Strangle the innocent,
The small, unhealthy, and pure.
I would kill for small
Or innocent or pure
Perhaps then I would
See the end of torture
And torment brought forth
By The Tree.