When time passes and the strings
of her branches
harden from its spot —
life continues to go on.
Even when the music stops playing,
time never quit its soliciting
bids for tragic goodbyes.
The blue oak tree stood tall
while her leaves falling out in Autumn
and a forlorn hymn plays around her —
time is crucial and the world a rhetorical
place of wisdom and grief.
She stood there everyday
in stories and legends —
her body an art of desecration
with letters carved unsent,
she stood there, still.
The blue oak tree
danced on the mist of the sky —
the clouds swished its billowy mass
“life continues to go on”
it passes, with certain reasons
and uncertain excuses;
the blue oak tree
keep dancing in stillness.
The song stopped and
she stood there,
hardened her branches
while her leaves keep falling out
in Autumn,
and the wind in stillness —
there, she stood in years,
without a song, without a trail of dance,
without a life.
The blue oak tree died
while her body is used as an art of unsent letters.
Writing this while I go home from work at 4 a.m.
everythingoes by RM was an inspiration when I wrote this.
