The tree is bent.
It stands tall,
But it’s bent.
Water drips from its barren branches,
Hot, stinging droplets skewed by gravity,
A deep, rich, sapphire blue.
Drip, drip, fall the droplets,
Falling from an unknown tree.
Below waits an invisible basin,
A basin that provides optical illusions,
Illusions of being filled
Even though the droplets quickly drain.
Yet still the tree stands,
Shedding these sapphires,
Trying to remain tall in the storm.