May 29 2009
This Is To:
To whom the barren willow weeps,
Her branches downcast, defeated, and mournful.
Whilst she, with her matted red curls webbed with the housing of spiders,
Callused skin dispelling her enemies, cries out to her willow – mournful.
Yet the circus clown, clad in the brightest of colors,
Paints on a mask of “I’m happy,” “I’m sad,” “I’m crying” but disregards the vanish of, “I’m mournful.”
To the sparrows calling out to it mate with despair so great
Only one sound travels on the stale autumn wind: mournful.
Meet no end, for the beginning’s awoken to bright gray catastrophe and dull yellow trivialities – Wake to a morning of mourning.
And I, with no means of oxygen,
Feasting on the crust of bones, do not yet feel mournful.
