from the oak it observes-Part II
A vicarious verve,
A sweet and bitter reserve
An exhibition of life.
I can only observe.
A means to construe,
an existence subdued,
a body unseen,
the silence alludes.
I wander around,
Watching those who’ve been bound,
Waste their time away,
With the love they have found.
And those who resist,
Breath the loneliness.
Illusions of choice,
An err in their bliss.
Failure’s in falling,
When moments seem sullied.
I’m not a protector of fame.
I see the good that go bad,
want the things that they’ve had,
but paper never dries the same… Turning their page to the flame.
Perched upon the oak,
Cold winds invoke,
a family embrace,
Before a sudden stroke.
A struggle for reception,
A bodies rejection.
Against a mutiny soul,
a fleeting connection.
Through the eyes of death in the form of a crow--not explained in this part.
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