To The Willow That Perpetually Weeps

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Heavily inspired by the imagery of a lone, mourning Willow standing atop millions of graves; graves that belong to the fallen. "And thus, the Willow shall perpetually weep..."

They are beautiful and perfectly symbolize one's developed attachment to those who have passed on. This is an ode to these straitlaced and gloomy "Ornaments of Death".

Submitted: November 28, 2010

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Submitted: November 28, 2010

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To The Willow That Perpetually Weeps
 
by: The Scales
 
 
Tell me, my dear friend Willow, why soldiers of tears you shed
Proudly perched atop the bold souls' victory from dread
Fallen warriors of lackluster night shall look up to thee
As you look down from the Heavens, without words of glee
 
 
The graves, they seem, speak with little, timid voice
The dead, however, they shall dance and rejoice
Stand proudly, my dear, for this feast is yours!
A chorus of requiem the deceased grew to abhor
 
 
Cheer up, ol' friend, liven up your wooden bones
Outstretched, fondling fallen names carved on stones
The Cemetery ravishes tonight, so weep no more!
And think not of the prudish moon, filled with foolish lore
 
 
And yet, I see you still weep, my dear ol' friend
Such a poor, parsimonious sight that I dare not commend
The Yard tonight is still, lifeless as deathly night
The Sun's dumb rays gleam, yet absent is dumb light
 
 
Your blameless leaves sop with the loneliness of wet tears
And then your branches, they droop, like suicidal nights of fear
Rest your heart, my dear friend. For you alone are life.
Indeed. Yet an ornament of death. A proud husband without wife.
 
 
Gloom rests on your branches, as discord rests upon strife
For death comes as a hushed thief and as silent as life
The heroes graceless from beyond, they bellow from the depths
Of tarnished, forgotten honor and Adonis-bodies unkempt
 
 
This is to the Willow that perpetually weeps
Whose drops of shame its own wood refuses to seep
Rest your soul, my dear friend. For you alone are death.
Indeed. Yet an ornament of life. Living but without breath.


© Copyright 2018 The Scales. All rights reserved.

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