The ground is as cold as her hands are,
As cold as her tears in the snow.

This place, she calls it; The Weeping Willow,
Because all she ever does here is cry.

It's branches hang lovingly over her head,
It's leaves mirroring her hair over her face,
Mirrored by the water.

It's a wonder that the tree can even stand;
It's been watered with nothing but salt-water and heartbreak.


Surely something born from the broken
Should never be whole to start with.