I dream of the man who stood beneath the maple tree
A handsome man with a wicked grin
Who held my hand and kissed my knees
When I fell from atop the maple tree
Who made me an easel, but discouraged me from art
Who drove me to school before the sun was up
And called me a liar, a petty little ****

His shadow lingers beneath the maple tree

A lie. A con. A mask. A blotch .
A man lost to memories I wish not to dust
I wonder why I cannot forget
Why it still hurts to think of him
Knowing he was the worst kind of man