Crows of Murder

You saw my colors, you started to love me.
You became part of me
I was scared of being hurt again
But I gave myself to you
To teach you of worlds you know not
And FREE you from your suffering curse

I am not Divine, am only an imperfect Human
I have made mistakes, too
I gave you the key
But you didn't give me yours,
Only lied and hurt me when I asked for it

I never spoke in love to another man
As we were combined as one
But the roses you sent didn't go to me,
I only received the thorns

In my suffering test you removed nothing
Just made me see you really didn't care
When we decided to part for the best
You made the move intolerable for me
Gave me kindness one day, and more grief the next

I never asked anything of you
Only wanted you to stop hurting yourself
But you weren't ready to do that
So you hurt me instead

I took all of your abuse and still gave you respect
Until I was continually disrespected in ways of pure anger
You want to remain friends,
But I don't sit in dark places all day,
Trying to forget what I don't want to remember

The eggshells you walked on
You put there in fear
I made you feel self-conscious
Only because you began to look at yourself
Through my eyes
Being crabby in the morning-time I said,
Was nothing about you

I've learned the power of internal and external forgiveness
I do forgive you, for I understand more than you know
But you cannot be part of my life at all
You need more time to grow

I wish you grand strength
Along with the power to see your true self
As you are lost in a gray cloud of confusion
Full of fermented weeds

I know you are sad I left,
For you only have the mirror on the wall.

2005 © CL Pridemore

Weeping Willow

Near a shore of rough water
it drinks deep
through the root

It's seen all the seasons
and knows the colors of each one

For the Young come along
to sway in the arms
But then Old stops by
and rips off a vine

The Fateful aires push hard
as if to snap it's long trunk
Those nightmarish winds
Oh, how long must they blow?

That look of the Great Oaks
seem to mock it's poor plight
They stand so straight and tall,
hardly moving at all!

It always fears this Fall.

In little time it recalls
the mystic waters
which
keep the bark soft
And then leaks a small tear.

So with a sniff and a sigh
It now stretches out wide
to praise that great Aire

Then, casting aside doubt
of breaking at all,
It learns to touch
the Ground

Draft - 2009 © CL Pridemore

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