Life is death
In many ways, I can resemble myself to a tree as peculiar as it may seem. Unable to control the brute storms that force darkness upon me, the unholy rain falling harshly turning my skin thick to thin, or the people with axes stripping me down of my last will. My roots sticking me to the course ground-still as a statue until I slowly decay to ruins. Until the day someone takes the courage to water a seed again. Plants need more air than robots. This polluted oxygen is paining my lungs made of flowers. Now I wait for winter...