The Art Of Growing Alone (Poetry)

I am the tree the warm breeze fails to touch
but blows on by
the passing thought that dare not wish for much
too frail to fly.

Weatherproof — my skin immune to passion’s pain
my bones keep dry
while others brave the storm — dance in the rain
I watch and sigh.

Aloof upon the mountaintop of all my fears
I’m set apart
left counting that dark stairway grown from years
and known by heart.

Aching like a conscience that is troubled and unsure
I look to own
a castle on a cliff where seas wash pure
arrogant stone.

I live in a grey country — the cold wind’s voice
a far-off moan
one tree abandoned on edge of choice —
leave well alone.