they wait beneath their willow tree. quiet leaves, like painted stars, tinkle in soft melodies of silver bells that never touch. they wait beneath their barren tree. a familiar painted sun vanishes as midnight comes with lingering eternity. they wait beneath their hollow tree. they chant their unforgotten word: “reminiscence”, “reminiscence”, like beating hearts, perilously. they wait beneath the resting tree. through many thousand clockwork lives- their own hope-tied absurdities, they gaze, like lonely children, at their moon.
T. E. Pyrus