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The Maple Tree |
| Written by August Blackwood | |
| Saturday, 21 June 2008 | |
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This tree sprouts from The brown earth. Its name Is maple, who's syrup is so sweet. Yet its rosy Buds Wound The white snow Beneath.
A lonely home, Brightened by Flames Burning in a newly lit Lamp, Bursts its light Through its Gaping windows.
See that woman Walking behind Those curtains. Oh, how I Envy her, Her beautiful Brunette hair And budding Red lips.
I see the lights vanish In the wind. And a man walks Out. How gorgeous he is, His hair black and in waves.
The sky darkens. The buds drop. Candles flicker. And I watch this man Lick his lips As he trots down his Lonely path. His lips are so scrumptious. They are red, So red.
And I knock my candle over. Now The crescent moon is all that Gazes at me. That silver glare, Like what flashed Behind that woman before all went black, Before her white curtains had rosy spots. It mesmerizes me.
And I hear a soft knock on my cabin door. What a euphonious sound. And coldness blows at me To spread my skin out As loneliness escapes.
And I look up at the tree.
That was when I noticed That another bud had fallen. And I felt sorry for it, So sorry. But I didn't cry.
I didn't cry, For only the past mattered now. But that won't matter anymore. My silver glare met me
Again.
Yet, The maple Buds mourned for me. For they saw my Buds Fall from this Open window, From which I stood.
The tree swayed... And I touched its roots.
Copyright 2008 August Blackwood |
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| Last Updated ( Saturday, 21 June 2008 ) |
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