The Weeping Willow

In the peaceful meadow I created;

As wise as the old willow trees I adore, I knew better than to hold you to standards.

I didn’t place emotional runoff on the ways in which you chose to water me. I gave you the chance that you asked me for. When I gave up the others and playing the games, I resumed my pursuance of the old neglected willow tree.

Just in time for you to show me you were only pulling on emotional roots for the thrill of putting on a show. You judged me for the choices I made that stemmed from the rooted pain endured in the deforestation of my love.

Brushed aside I still held no hate in my heart, no discomfort. I allowed you to be who you were: pouring secrets, thoughts, pains and bothersome troubles unto me—like a deer you used me for healing.

In allowing your perception of me to decide how you would treat me, rather than who I am at my core you forced me to remain still.

Not swaying forward, not swaying backward; bending but never breaking.

I am the essence of feeling and imagination. In my shade is where viceroy and red-spotted butterflies read the pieces of the stories until they find the truth. Yet, also where gypsy moths, aphids and carpenter worms like yourself feed—just because.

Or perhaps you are, just a man who simply pissed his pains away upon my roots.

Or rather an excavator, unknowingly uprooting and freeing me from my place of comfort.

Still, I landed here carrying my viceroy and red-spotted butterflies, awaiting the inevitable gypsy moths, aphids and carpenter worms and another excavator;

praying for a tree-hugger.
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