Lonely I fly.
If only I could cry.
The skies can feel it adamantly grey,
Gloomy, lifeless, like an eternal season of decay,
The wind with a scratchy voice sings a song for the soul
And as it blows, it rattles my bones, making me feel old.
A vagabond’s tale
My skin has gone pale.
The ground is prepared, so the cycle goes,
The watchers are ready, how long it will take, nobody knows,
I am of this world, earthy and pasty, with no secrets to share
Coddled by despair, hope is rare, I bare my veins trying to share.
The tree breathes without me.
I never knew she’d doubt me.
We were of the same branch in the greater scheme of things,
Nestled in the high-reaches, aloof, beyond what disharmony brings,
Our philosophy simple, lived, exacted beyond the principles we felt
Everything fate dealt simply laid to rest by psychic cries for help.
Wood is always combustible.
My loyalty is undeniable.
When green fades to brown, promises are kept,
Leaves with an iron will rust, even if they have settled their debt,
For nothing makes sense when you gauge life through a biased lense
Hoping one special friend will remain, only without any pretence.
Tears nourish roots.
Memories are abused.
What was is no longer, change is growth,
We gave in time, took what we could, there was plenty for both,
With a new season coming, our moribund remains will be scattered
Jagged and tattered, where nobody will ever know that they mattered.