The Bald Island

Image, but not the poem, generated with help from LeonardoAI

Isolated, devastated, breaking the vast tumultuous flow of the Ocean's depths there is a lonely, old island.
Elevated, uninsulated, quaking winds dance unimpeded across its once forested soil without reprimand.

Sedimentary statues silently sit in silt surveying the silent, surreal, surrounding somber scene.
Lignite ligaments they are, lording over and littering the lost, living, landscaped latrine.

What would fate have of the sculptors of statues, the arboritic barbers of the environment?
The tale is one of bar-bars, and groups of barbers, destined to scalp earth and man.

The barbers, synchronized in spirit, took blade to the land, and plow to the field,
The industrious trimmers quickly exploded in number following suit of the yield.

Time would pass, and their numbers would amass; the fruit transformed to folly,
Accompanied by the withering of the countenance to that of melancholy.

The once mighty tribe of trimmers, divided mytopically until 1 was 9,
Each cell would come adorned with a head and symbols of the divine.

The tribes continued their growth, and the trees to forslowth,
As the vital resource was hunted by its tribe and its oath.

Soon scythe was traded for sword, and bough for bow,
And more of the now ruddy ground began to show.

Finally the last tree, shaven by the barbers,
Conscripted by the last of the bar-bars.

On this island there are no species,
Of those who tend to break treaties.

Nothing left to catch the breeze;
The bald island, bereft of trees.

The statues, a great story,
Of a great fall from glory.