Oak

The wise old oak, the crooked tree,
The moon that shines, through branches of thee.
The cold hard earth upon the ground, the rocky soil upon the mound.
And gently swaying in the breeze,those pretty, soft and feathered leaves.
On his stump, a stranger sits, and watches memories come in bits
For those have come and so will go, and life goes on but no one knows
The pain I feel, and so I sit and so.
The cold hard moon will brightly glow,
Through chilling stony winds that blow,
And in the cool blue sky of night, tis when the barn owl makes his flight.
Under cover of darkness, shadows grow,
On the floor, In the mind,
And no one knows.
But me, the shadows now engulf,
And pain floods in, the howling wolf..
I wish that I could know more now,
But as I take the final bow,
My strength is gone, and I must bend,
I’ve nothing left with which to defend.
And as I fall into the cold black void,
That which I have been desperately trying to avoid,
Comes rising up, the waves of pain,
Are overwhelming, drowning me.
And there’s nothing left for me to do,
No choices left, nothing to lose.