in the world of the wicked

daunting sea waves lick wooden boards 

with a taste for an 

 

innocent’s destiny, yet she wears the                  

white; breeze of a

 

future pulls soft hair, makes butterflies 

dance and barren 

 

limbs taunt, they scold as if to tell the

young child not to

 

get her soul wet, but she replies, “i 

must keep the roses 

 

moist, for surely they will wither and

die;” the limbs pick

 

at her clothing as a daunting grand

parent must, “child,

 

if you do not listen, you will receive

a switching from a

 

deftly branch!” “what of your leaves

dear tree, to soften

 

this punishment?” “have you forsaken

them for you own

 

banishment?” “they have fallen from

once a stately oak

 

into the sea

into the sea,

 

i hear them in desperation calling,

slowly sinking,

 

do you not care to save them?” “i

choose not too,

 

for they are now orphans of silence,

besides, i will soon

 

have new growth in the spring;” “but

what of this tide?”

 

“child, you ask of me too many

questions!” “besides,

 

it is time for a switching…” “oh,

i rather thought

 

you had forgotten about such things,

anyway, i want to

 

sit beneath your branches and touch

the sky with my

 

heart on swing;” “i am afraid little

one that the sea

 

has now come to claim thee, it grabs

my roots with

 

salty hands as to choke, to smother

with brine, take

 

heed not to succumb to dark water,

one of youth

 

and purity;” “i will dearest friend…”

a tender touch

 

now from bough to wipe a long,

solitary tear;

 

she walks away as bark and limb

get pulled into

 

cold, desolate degrees, places red

roses on whitecap

 

and depth… butterflies are free.

 

Copyright © 07/29/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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