The shady green of the giant Oak tree,
Clash against the crimson,
Staining her shirt as she lies still,
Under the shade of the Oak tree.
The silhouette of her lover,
Dark against the morning sky,
A knife in hand and tears apparent,
Leaves her dead, against the Oak tree.
A few Oak leaves fall,
Covering her with the eerie green,
Burying her under a blanket of color.
The seasons change,
The leaves crumbling,
Turning to dust as it becomes fall.
The fall of his lover,
By his hands he stained her crimson.
The stench is met by men in black,
Loathing their work as they
Probe, ****, poke,
Thinking about how she was stained crimson.
They leave and take her with them,
The looming Oak tree waving a goodbye in the wind,
A single leaf floating down,
A single parting gift is given.
Oh, the Oak tree,
The few roots stained crimson,
The few leaves soaked in blood,
The small blades of grass matching,
Waving in the breeze with the Oak tree.