Weep not for me, kindred willow tree,
for I am not the first troubled soul to lie
in unsettling rest beneath your mossy nest
under the promise of a translucent blue sky.
I am not the first… nor shall I be the last…
seeking refuge amid your willowy boughs;
purging my thoughts, distraught, overwrought
in this hidden haven bestowed to me now.
In a semblance of grace, your wisps touch my face.
Whispering winds vow that you understand;
my need to escape, disconnect, reassociate,
be at peace with my soul, with my words, in your land.
The sway of your leaves offers writer's reprieve;
wandering winds carry your sadness in song.
So different are we…. yet such similiarity;
a visage bent, never broken, standing strong.
See a trace or two of slain writer's blood blue
that seeped past the boundary of pages;
a stain on the ground, testament to be found,
as poets passed through art's ages.
Is a true poet a dying breed? I refuse to heed
any unrefined insolents of these days.
With poet's poised pen, an eloquence within,
I pour out my passions on poetic display.
So weep not yet for me, precious willow tree,
with God's grace words live on through tomorrow.
The final disgrace, when art is no longer embraced,
I'll join you...our tearful heads bent likewise in sorrow.
