The privilege of knowing we Has fled, Runaway To some harsher place, Fallen - Gone to bed. And Longing now is Thy breathe, locked, Waiting Behind some other Face, clawing at Their throat and Hunting for A grip so That It may escape And let it Be said I Was too late, Fallen - Gone to bed.
He’s seen boys march to war And hobble back as men His roots now grow red In their memory He’s faced the brittle saw Of human greed And once bore The weight of an empire Only to watch it fall As he does To the selfish axe His branches used to Hang strangers for Crimes he never Even witnessed His leaves whisper Secrets through the wind Whistling the tunes Of forbidden lovers And mans’ betrayals His bark fills the playgrounds Of our children, whilst his own Are crushed, by the Unforgiving pressure of mankind And after all this, All this pain for no reward He welcomes All to call him home.
a man, so precious and violent caught in between, the fragile and beautiful, coerced to sit, waiting, wings clipped like the crow, cooped in a branchless tree, vulnerable and dazed, he hopes for the world to coo, again.