It bends its back and cracks its spine
Out of sheer frustration
Much like a whip
For as it is, it seems to be, and ever will be
The unchangeable, and the uncommented

Much like the silent birds which breathe, yet are not without their own beauty
How they never sing, and will never speak of such things
Because this is how, and this is when
I know why the willow whips do weep

For as we are one and from the same
How they cry in silence, not out of vanity, but out of frustration
Because you, in stay, know no other way
Than to pass them by before they can speak

Of the way your footprints tread on the teeming dandelions
Leaving only the meadow left in pain
For you are so invested in your own sunshine
That you neglect to see and hear the same
That the willow whips now weep in pain