Portrait of the Artist as a Lone Tree
Spring came late
Still-life of lies - the still-born lies
that never reached my ears -
told to my heart in tales that others knew,
her secret fears;
though still the English winter chills my bones –
thoughts chill my mind,
and all the hopeless handicap
of life is left behind.
When was the sacred summer
where your early promise grew?
The childhood others had,
that you insist you never knew?
Where were the saving angels
that surrounded you before?
Why are you cold and lonely
on the empty second floor?
Now all my heart says ‘die’
when life supplies no hope to live;
the hope you have is real;
but mine is gone. My life I give.
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