The willow is confused,
Thinks whether to wilt or bloom.
The lake will catch all her tears,
The lake will be her passionate groom.
I feel the seismic shakes up north,
The eagle of terror, alights to land.
We follow the cracks, on the ground, so dry,
Thee lines on the dirt, like the lines on my hand.
We sail, amidst, the howling winds,
The storm is a cyclops, and we search for his eye,
But the eye we seek cannot be found,
The storm is blind, and the calm is a lie.
Days that come, feel forever bright.
Nights crawl in and fill the clouds with gloom.
So the willow, is confused, and she can't decide,
If today, she wilts, or continue the bloom.