To Pine
By Vertigo
Tue, 07 Mar 2006
- 988 reads
Like birds over my head, filled with confusion
Circling tipsy in a solemn infusion
of sorrow and pain
of work without gain
And strain that's become a compulsion.
I cry to the skies, restless and sour
Praying strength to some remote higher power
to strive and to fight
for that which is right
In spite of that before which I cower.
And time is elusive, she's cruel and good
Nurtures small child and fells trees that stood
tall and proud before
now to earth are once more
A core that was flowering is strong brown wood.
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