SORROW

She gives fumbling words a path,
And the sentences they form bring tears in their eyes.
And one by one She comforts them all,
For She herself forms melancholy,
And her ice-cold fingers fetches them warmth,
The warmth that only icicles understand.
And whispers them a thousand thoughts,
None of which they understand.
She sings them to sleep,
And forms a shadow for their lost purposes.
She crumbles them under her grip
And pulls them into her dark valleys.
But when the sun shines they walk away,
Without a bow or goodbye.
She sits in her corners awaiting more outcasts,
An ugly tree that shades all those burning under the sun’s glare.