The Lonely Tree

A poem.

Wooden arms dangle and droop

from the darkness,

hoping to touch the light. 

Arms that become inanimate, 

and lifeless, in the splendor of that which they yearned for. 

Did they know?

Did they know they would die

in the light, as moths do?

Stretching for that which they 

cannot have, but bleed for. 

Looking to have a chance of being beautiful, like the 

grass kissed by rain and dew. 

Safe in the light.