The Weeping Willow Tree

The Willow Tree once did beckon me,

Lover's words etched upon its leaves,

In the fickle breeze

Capricious air that which constantly weaves.

Beckoning like a harpy, if need, I would crawl,

To reach the under of the Willow's verdant boughs to sprawl.

The stars, sole witness to my plight,

Met beneath the willow's canopy, seemingly such a sweet sight.

As I watched my hearts' yearning fade away,

I felt akin to a feline or a sorceress of great sway,

For I brought myself back from the brink many a day.

Then came the girl, referred to a replica of me,

In a summer gown, a vision of beauty, a true sight,

Her font in a hue of seductive scarlet, her words both light and polite.

How could I ever hope to compete?

When I am but a mere indulgence, as her presence is gone from the air.

My voice steeped in the color of wine, my font, like my words, bold and clear.

Whenever I would implore the Willow Tree,

To love me with any spare vein of its heart,

It would whisper, "It’s just wrong. I would take what I give- if you were smart.”

And then I felt my soul wither and die,

And my grave lay in the soil, watered with the tears I cried,

My legacy, my monument, along the roots on the willow tree’s side,

The slaughtered soul of mine, and the sight of a pretty girl, who, to this day, still resides…

~ SF