Her heart is like a sycamore
Roots digging deep and holding strong
Extending branches that fractal and fracture
Into broken vines and twigs
Flowers croon and give bright wings
Only to die and be forgotten
As they permeate the ground
So that more can stand as a sycamore
Flourishing with their own spring colors
Until all that is left of her
Is a hollow shell
Of a bullet shot in the dark
The only evidence
That something may have been there
To stand as a sycamore
And grow
Now only sought out
By skulking foxes
And churlish creatures
That roam on reposed
Forgetful
Forest floor