The act of art

You would have thought the paper mill was mean to us

until we met the other of the underworld

first debarked from our roots

shredded to chips

then acid abused

churned in bleach

to soften our bits

rolled to sheets

sheets in rolls

all packaged for you

we were not told

We carry the marks

the scars of pulping

like drawings on cave walls

crafted with crude tools

you could feel the illustrations

connect to the story

When you grab us

on that roll

(The heavens singing in high note)

and pull like a tight rope

our story is not what been told

(The heavens switch to low note)

Flush!

Not looking back

to admire our roughness

connect to the harshness of the bleach

burning acid

grinders with big teeth

Not looking back to our roots

The forest that once was

but now its gone

You come back again

the other of the underworld

to use us to wipe

those unpleasant spots

Flush!