You

Your dry bones, stark,
stripped bare of supple flesh.
Your arrogant antlers, curved,
poised to tangle trespassers.
Your ever-pointing finger,
insisting I had got it wrong.
You, perched on a stone throne,
for extra height, to elevate
your ego, desiccated, proud.
You, doomed to miss the spirit
of the forest, the tree of life.
You did not see the trunk
holding me safe, enwombed.
You did not know I grew,
ready to kill your wife.