The tree that withered

In the middle of nowhere, I’m like a stream,
Where people come when they don’t feel well.
They drink, they smile, then walk away,
And I’m left alone with the passing day.

My heroes, greats in my quiet sky,
Fade like dusk, leave tears in my eyes.
As every year passes, their image starts to blur,
And I, now taller and older, long for who they were.

Time unfolds moments, lets them fall.
Everyone rushes past some or the other silent call,
Their lives filled to the brim with purpose, with pace,
While I’m left here, in the same old place.


Still I grow, a tree that feeds its core,
With damaged roots reaching deeper than before.
But in the quiet hours, I dream of care
That’d tend to me, one who’d finally understand.

Even the trees fall when winds don’t rest,
And water dries on the harsh sunny days.
What’s left may look like strength,
But even silence dies, where no one has ever been.