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Poem

The once looming grey and desolate storm, now sails to the present, 
Overhead it silently suspends it's brewing opression on our scene,
The barren landscape of the moors rolls away into eternity,
Dressed in it's rugged and timeless mourning,
The rarest tree that once grew fertile there now stands alone,
Tall and lifeless, it's wilted stoop, in memory of itself,
Ghosts are carried in the wind to the places they roamed,
At the trunk of the trees they stand, replaying memories,
Widow's fingers trace engraved initals in the ancient bark,
But the heart was scored there in the youth of the tree,
In the youth of her soul when she stood shaded by it's leaves,
The tree had since stood, as ages passed, a tomb of love,
Become twisted by the wind that had once been a friend,
It's stature had bittered, distorted in all her pain,
And had torn apart the heart inscribed in it's chest,
Broken and cracked bole tears the sentiment apart

-MXC

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