Mark Brunetti’s museum of trees….

Alright, so this weekend ill really be posting up the new new issue onto the idiom website….until then we’ll feature this last poem from the May issue by one of the editors Mark Brunetti….usually we tell you what we like in a poem but I don’t want to get to self indulgent so comment below and say what you like about this piece (or don’t like)

The Museum of Trees

Your car drives through the entrance, a large gate with large wooden doors.
After your car rolls its windows down, the excess amounts of oxygen
make all the passengers feel really good about themselves and the world around them.
The trees have branches that gradually lower themselves onto the cars as they go further into the museum.
Pretty soon, the drivers can hardly drive, and it feels as if your car is going through a car wash, the giant branches dragging
over the windshield and dropping back off the trunk.
Everyone feels fine in the car, no one is panicking.
Soon enough you all have become a part of the museum,
a part of the trees. Your screams can’t be heard through all the
wood,
and if you happen to escape the car, you would walk for so long
that it wouldn’t even matter.

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