The Lonely Elm

Is there anything worse to be?

Than the wicked work of fantasy?

Is there anything left to say?

When you have no say of being born this way?

What life is to be had from fiction?

A reality that is way past far-fetched and is spawned

From the imaginative individuals whose lives they've pawned

As they ponder the unthinkable

And devise whatever they please

They write into reality whatever it is they see

I wonder what heartless soul conjured lonely me

I did not ask to be this way

I did not ask to be

Is there anything worse in this realm

Than a ghastly and lonely elm ?

One whose heart is forever broken

Because his words are locked and unspoken

If ever I could aspire to be

More than me

More than this tree

I'd like more than anything to be

More than fantasy...