the trees are dying. <br />they wither like my heart, <br />sunshineless. <br />millions of little branches, <br />now a forbidden forest. <br />for 'tis death's season and <br />love is like the dead furry things strewn on roads, <br />whose eyes stare at a clouded heaven, <br />crimsoned by two green evils <br />riding the darkest Mechanical. <br /> <br />should a misstep made be <br />the last mistake ever made? <br /> <br />this may be the closest i'll ever be to holding you. <br />this may be the closest i'll ever be to hearing you laugh (you always meant them) . <br />this may be the closest i'll ever be to seeing you dance, ballerina-style. <br /> <br />some of us are dying while <br />the rest of us are dying like dead furry things.<br /><br />Casper Fields<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/f-r-davina/
