Beneath the moon’s cold, watchful eye,
A tree stands silent, wounds run deep.
Its bark is scarred; its sap won’t dry,
For every name, it’s bound to keep,
A curse etched there for souls to weep.
The lovers carved with thoughtless blade,
A fleeting vow, a whispered kiss.
Now shadows dance where dreams once played,
And roots ache for a simpler bliss,
While haunted whispers twist and hiss.
Its leaves grow heavy, dark with grief,
Each scar a wound that will not fade.
No time nor sun brings it relief,
For memories cruelly invade,
And turn its strength to ghostly shade.
Yet still it stands, though bent and worn,
A bleeding shrine to fleeting youth.
Its rings hold tales of hearts forlorn,
Each scar a fragment of the truth,
A silent ode to love’s unsooth.
Oh, bleeding tree, what stories keep?
What specters linger in your boughs?
Do ghosts of lovers dream or weep,
While nature kneels in solemn vows?
Your endless scars, their endless plows.
We carved our initials into a tree bark long ago.
