By Euphedra Aster
The great Willow crouches above me,
Stooped and wise, yet not old;
It stands like a spire calling on Midnight,
Telling a story never told.
And it swirls around me, consumes me, taunts me,
Squirms around inside my mind;
It holds me, comforts me, wants me,
Yet tells me I am blind.
The Willow, so vast, so beauteous,
It warns me of the pain;
I walk it off, live and forget,
Like turrets in the rain,
But the clouds of gasoline that eat away and claw at this great tree,
I climb up on you, clinging to what you used to be,
So strong and proud, once like a tower, now fallen in my dreams,
Remembering the stories not told that you passed along to me.
For the pain of forgetting is forgotten now,
I'm sick of all this waiting.
I sit under your withered branches still,
Even as you're fading,
You think I play here, but I don't;
I am forgotten and do not think,
And I raise my head and whisper my own stories
Of our days of interlink,
And here I stand now, proud
Like the claws that dragged you down,
Daunting the stories never told
That together we have found.
YOU ARE READING
Walking Into Black
PoetryDon't fear death. It does nothing for you. Death is at every turn; the challenge is if you choose to accept it or not. Don't fear pain. Pain is how you learn. Pain is the side-effect of life. If you live life fearing getting hurt...can you tr...
