Such twisted wings on perfect frame,
A poisoned thing with pretty name,
Hallowed be her every step,
From when we met to when she left.

And oh how I am such a fool,
To fondly think of one so cruel,
Yet that is me, then and now,
A giving tree with core cut down.

And I cannot blame a tired soul,
For seeking warmth in world’s cold,
So when she gave to me her hand,
I gave to her a loving chance.

And in those days I wore a smile,
There was no maze, no test or trial,
To tell me then what wisdom knew,
That happy things are rarely true.

And soon I found she left to me,
Such twisting, gnawing, growing seeds,
Of pain and doubt in lasting glimpse,
Her name carved out in reverence.

For she confessed to me these thoughts,
A sense of growing, twisting, gnawing loss,
And I like donors linked and paired,
Gave my heart to see her spared.

But fool was I to do this deed,
As I fear this tall giving tree,
Has wilted, worn, and rotted through,
Left to mourn with little use.

So reaching then up towards the sun,
Sensing thoughts of love and fun,
I call anew another name,
To sew the seeds all the same.