staring from my place at the foot of a
hill marked by death and lies that
never would have been were it not for
some twisted sense of devotion
lowering my head, i gaze in awe at
the whimsical nature of a willow that
seems to have sprouted amongst a sea
of vengeance and hatred, it sways in a
soft, yet strikingly powerful w i n d
an unrelenting breeze that serves as little
more than a reminder of times gone by
when there was not a moment to spare
to enjoy such trivial little pleasures
there was but one who would stop and
he would take in the day even when it
might have cost him life itself, because
without these things, he could find
no reason to exist at all