I asked the weeping willow tree
   how lonely is this swamp I see?
What dark, primeval, loveless start
   left it with this mired heart?

Why do lamenting ghosts of fog
    in mourning grieve over the bog?
What forked-tongued lies could have been told
   to make its murky blood run cold?

The tears that water fern and frond
   how many fell to fill this pond?
What parasites swell in its brains
   and leech upon its gnarled veins?

Did poor, lost souls who ventured in
   fall victim to its shedding skin?
What deathly wish granted its gloom
   the confines of its living tomb?

Do streams of conscious flood its mind
   with thoughts of shores it left behind?
Be it wise to even dare
   to ask this lonely swamp to share?

For how could loneliness accrue
   where so much green absorbs the blue?
Has it no path to guide it through?
   sobbing, the tree responded true

"To delve into this sad bayou
   impossible it is to do
This loneliness you misconstrue
   is just the swamp

Inside of you"