Withered Leafless Trees

Withered leafless trees Clinging to old roots Sway fearful of the wind, Murmuring among themselves With dull nonsense About the rains. The doltish deceive themselves That winter is a prelude to the Spring. Have they ever learned the truth Or have they read the timeless lie And believed it true. Summer is its own season Stirring the soul with its light. The earth fragrant with decay, Blooming as if blanched with treason. For the buds are flowering Now, readying for the blight. In the beginning the end Wasn't written, hope survived And the brief flickering light Held promises even in its youth As the dead clay thickened About the truth. Yet so many perish, Lost in the dimming of the light. Even as they flower they fade, Eunuchs to the possibilities. Marching to the tune of Vacant wisdom from old men Who know nothing but The silence of their thoughts And the stillness of their minds. Thus as the flames, leaping Down the seasons and the years collide Leave fragments that spark even the deadest eyes I see in each face the hollow minds And the terror behind those Glowering facades. The trees, in the twilight born Among the wilderness of dead leaves On rocky soil and outcrops of stone Grow sickly silent as their futures, shorn Of promises they can't beget. And the coming years stored only with regret.