I sit under this crooked tree,
The branches twisted crookedly.
And while I stare up at the pure white sky,
I ponder over love and life.
So as I sit under this crooked tree,
The limbs all bare, a shape strange as can be,
I wonder if it's all a lie.
For surely it can't look like this when I die.
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 5:02 PM UTC
I sit under this crooked tree,
The branches twisted crookedly.
And while I stare up at the pure white sky,
I ponder over love and life.
So as I sit under this crooked tree,
The limbs all bare, a shape strange as can be,
I wonder if it's all a lie.
For surely it can't look like this when I die.
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