The Little Room by the Tree

Written by Joseph Hill

The story has long been finished,
And it rests with others in my library.
Yet still I flick back the pages,
And visit that Little Room by the Tree.

The air was crisp and foreign,
Brittle and precious it sparkled about me.
Gently, she brushed my face, the wind,
Leading my hair in a dance of the free.

And the world was as an ocean,
Stretching our around me, deep and unreal,
With fields sliding down gracefully
As suddenly, the sky, mountains did steal,
And, in their wake, leave fiery clouds.
The sun seemed to die within the broiling mass,
As the world fell into darkness,
And the wind gave its face to waves of grass.

With an opening of thunder,
The dark sky split, spilling down shards of rain,
Upon she and I, mixing us,
Within The Storm of once-upon-a-love and pain.
We betrayed Love and danced with Lust,
As, about us, our world raged and raged.
With each kiss of fumbled passion,
So unique, no god, nor Fate could have staged.

Amid the clashing of teeth and lightning.
Amid the licking or kisses and rain.
Amid the sucking of breath and wind.
Joined by something stronger than any chain.

Opening my eyed, blinking back
The tears I forbid myself each day,
'Till I next peak into that room by the tree,
And my world cracks with storm-filled imagery.

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