The Willow

For only the rain shares my sorrow

                with its ever tearstained days

And only does this willow tree

                match my weeping ways.

Its limbs hang low

                much like my broken spirit;

The branches graze the earth

                and I lie, too restless, near it.

No cheery disposition

                can penetrate this mind

Where the cogs of thought turn feebly

                and search, but do not find.

I’ve grown tired of this journey

                of birth until the end.

In fact, I find I'm jealous

                of the carefree, wild wind.

With no meaning to its travels

                and no use to its ways,

It matters not of what it does through life

                and matters not of where it stays.

I'm more like the constant failures

                that are the ocean’s waves

Crashing always upon the sandy shores,

                unable to break away.