on your bird-shit stripe head.
The leaves are clustered
but they warm you at night.
The tree will strip.
The branches are failing
coming winter is hitting the nail in
And there's nothing worth screaming
to your silver chain gleaming.
Your cold, and your high
I look past you to the sky.
Maybe one day I could fly so high
As the little Robin bird,
who flies through you tweeting.
Offering nothing but a high morning greeting.
Your surrounded by life
but you wont live through night.
Your cracking and peeling
and shredding your feeling.
On a tree cold and leaning
the weak sun is gleaming.
Maybe you'll give winter meaning.
(object response)
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