How wretchedly stubborn you are,
Clinging to that tree
Like a man condemned,
Grasping at the last flicker of life,
Even as the darkness tightens its noose.

You knew, didn't you?
That this was never meant to last—
And yet, you hold on,
Like a soldier in the shadow of the gallows,
Waiting, not for salvation,
But for the slow mercy of death.

Is it time that terrifies you?
No.
Time does not heal.
It devours.
It gnaws at flesh and soul alike,
A ravenous beast that leaves behind
Only bones, memories, and regret.

And yet, despite knowing this,
Why do you still cling?
Is it hope?
Or is it that cruel instinct to endure,
Even when there is nothing left to endure for?

I wonder…
Perhaps it is not the fear of death that binds you,
But the terror of a meaningless end.
So you cling—
Because to fall is not merely to die,
But to be forgotten.

(How strange, that I should see all this—
In the silent struggle of a flower,
While the world moved on around me.)