The Crooked Stick
I remember the pain.
The old familiar ache.
An enemy I wear,
always there when I wake.
A branch behind my legs,
so swift, so fast, so direct.
He was so full of anger,
there laid no room for regret.
Where was she?
Did she ever care?
The pain was growing too intense.
Too much for me to bare.
And then... and then...
he was wasn't there.
the shining lights, all through the limbs,
their faces, white and fair.
He was gone... and so was she...
the branch was snapped in two.
Delicatley she swayed in the woods,
where the cypress grew.
And then I knew... she was always there.
A mother always sees.
I forever now, forever will, be haunted by the trees...
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