Uninspired.

I have a very cliché craving for someone to ask me if I’m alright.

There the willow stood, unmoving,

Its hollow trunk soiled and leaves blackening,

No wind teases it, its shriveled and dry

Branches drove away all that passed by.

There is nothing profound about it

Save the silence around it

Its craving for hope and light, lost,

In its curdling roots and compost

 

Nothing beckons,

 

Save the sorrowful song it sings

It singes

My very core, center and hinges

There is no more love, and no more resentment

No more room left for sentiment

Empty ; Just the biting numbness

An estranged, merciless caress.

 

In shock I shriveled, ashamed,

Blind and deaf to the call of my name

For my name I am not, and I, neither,

On the threshold of madness did I teeter

 

For the doors are closed, and the world unwelcome,

And nothing makes sense in this cold-blooded anthem.

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