Swaying to and fro,
     weathering breeze and gale -
          silently, leafless.

Standing ***** like sometimes I,
     casting shadows twice a day -
          never sleeping in the night’s, darkness.

Birds tend to rest upon their lofty branches,
     but for a moment -
          others a seasons, length.

Fluid from the sky drains to its roots,
     nourished by the abundant ground swells -
          growth spurts upward and, full.

The dull green color will never change,
     its hue will be recognized differently -
          during clouded, skies.

Its death may come as, lightning, STRIKES!

My poems rhyme
They certainly do
From beginning to end
You will hear them connect
I don’t know what gives me the knack
For the ending to seemingly stop.
Perfectly in unison they fit
Like a tiger in the jungle
If I had a chance
I would rhyme all day
And laugh

I am at double Four-double Four
Thirty-Fourth Street,
I could use a lift of sorts.
I would like to remain nameless,
my condition certainly is not.

My being seems out of place;
I have tried to keep focused.
The last group of days
have blurred together;
meaning lessens by define.

A bent key, I hold in my hand,
the remnant of a jagged world
unfulfilled by expectation;
of which I no longer fit.
Learned techniques fail me.

I was given this number,
by a caring friend;
said it would lead me
to truthful people.
Deemed credible I choose.

How I have hope, which is never lost!
Without reluctance I continue -
to the recommended anonym auditor;
tranquility listens further
to me