Old poetry

These structures of steel,
these beings of ore,
that stand above the world.
We created them, and yet,
they
are the rulers of everything.
In an iron mindset, these things of green,
they wither
beneath my metal fury.
I have no love for things
of the earth.
But when all is as it should be,
the dark mossy regions of my mind
reach their leaves toward the sunlight,
basking in its golden glow,
and once more,
I am a being of the forest,
of the green and of the world,
and its ageless whispers calm me.