:  "The Withered Tree" - 

*My Own Tree*

My soul, a tree, stood withered and worn,  

Its branches bare, by silent storms torn.  

My gaze was fixed on one lone sight —  

The travelers passing, left and right.  

Their journeys forward, their journeys back,  

While I stood still upon a barren track.  

My eyes sank deep, beneath the ground,  

Where tangled roots in darkness wound.  

The pain of being cut runs deep,  

A wound so raw, no solace keeps.  

It will not heal with passing time,  

It echoes still in silent rhyme.  

Again I saw the wind arise,  

And rain clouds gather in the skies.  

My heart lay low, weighed down by grief,  

Not a whisper came to bring relief.  

Struck once more, I nearly fell,  

When a traveler came, and broke the spell.  

The same old path, yet walked anew —  

He taught my withered branch to grow.  

New thoughts crawled like vines of light,  

Through cracks of pain, toward some height.  

I learned to trust — a silent plea,  

That friendship finds us, wild and free.  

The known stood mute, gave no reply,  

While strangers taught my soul to fly.  

My fears still warn me, dark and deep,  

But now I crawl, no longer sleep.  

I lie down, but not to die —  

To root myself beneath the sky.  

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