Weeping Willow


From the echoes of dawn to the silence of night,
He paint the sky delusional colors,
His hands
cold and raw.
But with a gentle touch,
He sprinkles the darkness with light,
All is quiet
until the willow begins to weep.
Her roots, twisted and old,
unchanged
since the eve of time.
Her branches stretched out,
with an empty embrace
in a field of young trees and daisies,
and an old swing held on by
a broken promise.
The winds blow, and they sing songs of youth
but
weeping willow weeps weakly when winds whisper,
It mourns as He embraces her.

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