There is a breeze likening more and more as to a gale
battering against these gallows I have wrought for myself.
I have nurtured proud oak and waited through its’ growth,
watering the sapling and tenderly tended it,
turned its trunk, twenty-nine years arching skyward,
to planks that might be more malleable,
made machinations for my demise more carefully considered than any choice I ever made in life,
and in taking tidbits of twine that tinkerers forgot,
I fashioned from those forgotten facets a facsimile of rope,
there twisting carefully the fabric of my misfortune into the instrument I’ll hang my dreams in,
one knotty noose to never ache again.
But this wind that quakes this steadfast plank,
constructed so meticulously,
it is far more terrifying than the contemplated act,
the fear of change courses through these craven bones
and drives the desire for the end of deliberation,
one act of impact and the wind will cease to matter anymore,
once importance wanes there is naught to meet you but the grave.
Yet the gale remains and stays this plann-ed execution,
a solution and a symptom part and parcel all the same,
the breeze resounds a name entwined in life and joy and pain,
that keeps the cord from cutting into neck that thought of this such a novelty,
this perpetual novice that notices every instance that negates his bliss,
that dismissed so abruptly as to strike an irrevocable split,
as an oak cleft by an axe, she would never take him back,
so he took to act but was stopped yet in his tracks
by the frail refrain that racked upon his brain and the pain he perpetuated on her person in her name.