SYCAMORE

The scent of autumn nights, when the leaves can’t quite

Decide if they are red or green, or something in between.

Birds and leaves are all the same, with only one change:

Birds can make the choice to fly against the breeze with which the leaves remain.

Could a rose by any other name sound as sweet when coupled with the blame?

Over fields, the sun is trying hard to show that it’s still shining,

But I haven’t felt it on my skin.

I’m no good at documenting life without embellishment;

Can’t turn thoughts into a song if no one cares what it all meant.

When did this become so hard?  Can’t find footing for a start.

I’ll look anywhere to find that which seems to make me lose my mind.

Minutes blur to hours blur to days.  Seasons pass, I’m left to watch the haze.

Weekends that I don’t remember, ties I never had to had to sever.

Conscious, yes but more than that, I’m dazed.

Pillars rise of smoke and ash, brazenly against the clash

All self-interest, no self-worth, could time away be any worse to me?

Does the sycamore by the pond still stand?  Does the sycamore by the pond still stand?

Underneath, the leaves have fallen; gone are both the sun and pollen

Flowers wilt and die to show the transformation: forward, slowly.

I got up and fell back down again.  Stagnancy is more than just a friend.

(Can anybody hear me? Is anybody listening?) x5

Does the sycamore by the pond still stand?

Does the sycamore by the pond still stand?