Back and forth.
Back and forth.
It strains and creaks.
I drown out the sounds of the weakening wood
with the faint warmth of the sun on my back.
With the dead brown tips of the grass tickling my bare feet,
I dream of when the setting sun
Will turn the impending green leaves to gold.
It glares at me through the bare branches
that extend to the darkening sky
with skeleton hands reaching for salvation,
sending a chill,
punishing me for daring to hope for spring.

I push myself higher,
away from the cold ground.
I try not to think
of the growing darkness,
of the deathly groans of the wood
that has held me up for so long.
I trust that it will survive
to help me escape from my torments.
I take no notice of its warnings.
I close my eyes
And do not see the hard ground rushing at me.
No one hears me as I cry out
With the pain of desertion,
as I am buried in shattered dreams.
 
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