Like the silver birch shaking its trunk
Autistically, in front of darkening grey skies,
How I yearn and pine to be able
To my tangled thoughts finally untie.
Forever grasping, casting out my mind,
I did not heed the fateful sign,
As the strangled stars were struggling,
Beyond gnarled, trembling branches to align.
In unforseen typhoons calamity struck,
Forcing my tendrils to come unstuck.
Such pain, such woe I did thence brook -
To no avail, as destiny offward snuck.
The root did wither, the stars did wane. All that's left is a frightful stain.
Now we await the falling rain, as we are already neck-deep in the mud;
Standing here, forlorn, might as well be made into wood - or even paper.