"meet the sycamore boy
as his branches reach toward the sky
watch as he tries to fly
with wooden stumps and a heart full of joy
but such a bright boy could never know
the darkness that hid the humans nearby
such greedy grins and beady eyes
watch the young tree as he grows
but unfortunately, it was too late,
the sycamore boy, once well and good
is now but a pile of rotting wood
tragedy struck and he was given the cruelest fate
remember as you use your wooden toys,
the child who reached for such faraway skies
now, the meadows and the forests silently cry
for the tall and proud, sycamore boy"
- why must the good die young?
YOU ARE READING
Delusional
Poetry"these words of mine will never come true neither will you" - - #120 in Poetry, June 11, 2016 #58 in Poetry, June 19, 2016 #31 in Poetry, July 8, 2016
