Truce under the sycamore tree

Round of applause under the sycamore tree

Till my hands give to numbness

How do they miss me?

These beings I have hardly opened up to

How do they care, when I only care for my made up remote wooer


Branches of the sycamore tree graze at my skin

Urging that I steady my balance

But really I’m unsteady

Held up by invisible wooers and persistent devotees

And I clap to the serenading air current, that whispers a truce


What am I chasing, fleeting happiness?

They fill my empty heart, these sweetings

But my brim fuller, only with thoughts of my wooer

Under the sycamore tree I lay, such a pretty photograph

But my wooer in an empty frame, unmatched, he tears it to shreds.


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