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From what tree
Do these leaves fall
That now lay upon your head?
Emblazoned upon
Your forlorn brow,
The tragedy of a withered crown.

From what grove
Do these roots spread
That now search for richer soils?
Reaching up
To break the ground
And wrap you in its lonely gown.

And ever you crawl
Deeper within yourself
In hopes to quell the pain
You've allowed to define you
Every thought becomes a seed
That grows into a vine of guilt

And every day, its grip grows tighter
And you've become its slave
Yet still you fear
The shell you'll become
Asking yourself,
"Who would I be in its absence?"

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