The Oak

Here stands the stalwart oak tree.

It's grounds stained red with leaves, brightly colored dreams.

It's roots run deep, soaking into me.

Vast mazes of thought lie inside openly.

Flowing with life. Sifting through strife.

On top that hill stands the stalwart oak tree most defiantly.

Though etched within it's crevaces I do see.

Dormant fears, that rott and decay.

The darkened roots that run deeply into me.

Oblivious they walk, looming over constantly

Trodden with years of steps, my roots now expose

Here stands ashamed, the stalwart oak tree

Time relapses, seasons contract slowly.

Each second weakening structure, decaying the strength

Once held by roots ran deep, now poisoning me.

An empty vessel hunches over wilted, awaiting endlessly

A facade stands fooling all those who beleived

Here stands the stalwart oak tree

It's roots run deep, soaking into me.