Photo via: Beauty and Grace
Ash-speckled bark, barren ancient tree
Worn, torn, open crags, like wounds to pink flesh
Exposed to honey rays and blustering days
Weathered, worn sapling, my old soul
Sweeping bend, aching strain, like a woman’s aged figure
Creaking with each warm, gentle brush of time
Solemn, hushed, heart of a thousand words
Swaying to and fro, as though in time to a lingering melody
Steady me still, for all the while I do stand
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