The Wreath

Lying alone, lost,

Under a dark wasted tree,

It's barren,

Stripped of it's leaves

Much like the boy,

Stripped of life,

Resting peacefully,

Covered by the trees bare branches

The grass in the wind,

Whispering sweet condolences,

A dark sky casting a restful shadow,

Over his quiet body

Larger trees, alive, blooming

Abundant branches; buds, birthing leaves,

Starve for his breath,

But none comes

And the bushes stand by,
Waiting for the one to find him,
Who will pick the briars blossoming  flowers,
And frame his pale, handsome face

A wreath of sympathy,
Made true by the beauteous blossoms

Author's Note

Wrote this sitting on a park bench in the sunlight. Hope to be able to do that more often. Hip hip for the coming of summer!!

Reviews

[Distant horizons]

Beautifully soulful feel to this. Could picture it perfectly. Excellent.