I sit under this crooked tree,
The branches twisted obliquely.
And while I stare up at the pure white sky,
I ponder over love and life.
So as I sit under this crooked tree,
The limbs all bare, a shape strange as can be,
I wonder if it's all a lie.
For surely it can't look like this when I die.
YOU ARE READING
Rain Clouds
PoetrySimple poems, each with a story just behind them. ••• This book will be updated whenever I write a new poem worth posting. I draw inspiration either from my own complicated emotions, or sometimes even stories I've created in my mind. I suppose only...
