The Irony of Trees

Contemplative

A thousand hearts

meander round,

in hope that one of them will drown

the empty space

where I once stood

and laughed and lived

as if I could

not hear the voice

that whispered low,

"These colours here

are all a show,

and mean no more

than falling leaves..."


And blank I wait

as all the trees

are dying slowly,

green to bare,

I lay beneath

so I won't care

that I'm the only one to know

the secrets of

God's master show.



Damn irony.

Still mocks us all,

these reds and greens

are all a wall

built with laughs

and loves

enthralls

So we know nothing when we fall.