Dystopian Tree — a poem

I am one of many
Small branches of a broken tree,
Trapped in a dystopia where I’m not free.
After dark comes the Banshee,
With its stinging words and mockery
Howling us with fire
And drowning us to tire.
One little branch trying
To keep from splintering away.
Who will fall?
Who will stay?
It’s a matter of time
Before we fade away.