Fruitless

Like the boughs of a mind heavy laden,
Solemn leaves of clouds descend,
Stepping from heaven to earth.
This subtle torture must end.

As I swim through the lake’s thick skin,
Every stroke toward the surface makes my soul ache.
What people don’t speak about
Leads my happy façade to break.

No fruit hangs from the tree—
Of success, a lack there may be.
No, it is not a fruit you can pick,
Nor gain by effort or cheap parlor trick.

Look past the fruit and into the skies;
No matter the focus of people's eyes,
Soar beyond judgment, beyond the sun,
Beyond the heaven from whence
These solemn leaves condense.
And thou shalt find thy crown of fate—
Hence.