Precarious

A weeping willow bent in pain
Atop a high, precarious hill
Enrobed and drenched in silken rain
A sepulcher for the ill

It wishes to suppress me
Held by its deep, archaic roots
It wishes to seduce me
With fallacious tales of truth

The sad requiem it sings to me
Weaves a spell of Luciferian death
It sees the life within my eyes
But smells the sickness upon my breath

Its fatal inquisition
Its means for my demise
To bury me in velvet dream
And feed off my sullen lies

Is it a test or malediction?
A desecration of my will
Entwined within its stifling grasp
Is it ready for the kill?

Disorder is my weakness
It knows my mind's askew
It attacks my internal fortitude
But will not tell me what to do

Perplexed and violated
This is the epitome of my living soul
Wanton fits of indignant bliss
Revitalization, not at all