american_sycamore_tree_450_1It hurts, like an arrow through my chest I feel the pain yet no blood is flowing.

There is a sycamore tree losing its leaves yet its arms are sprouting outward as if asking for some sort of love charity.

The rain falls and the wet grass each posses a drop of water, a drop of rain. Above the clouds have darkened and the wind has picked up in strength, in speed and in power. The rain continues to fall and now the drizzle has turned into a rain shower.

Its funny how a rain in the spring can invigorate us yet the rain in the fall leaves us wanting for home.

It hurts, this feeling of death growing inside of me, cut it out, let it go and love me as only you, my wounded love can love.

A lost boy, searching for his marbles, lost and alone; cries out and in the short distance he can see an open door.

The rain is pouring down now, and each drop feels like an icicle falling from an eave two flights up piercing, piercing my wounded soul.

Dont let, don’t let, don’t let it go – this pain inside of you. Its held within your ribcage imprisoned behind the bars of bone – can we run that way or this?

This pain inside I need to drop it; tear apart my skin and bleat it – drain my pain away…

It hurts and I need to be freed from these bars that are surrounding me.

The sycamore stands arms widespread welcoming the love, the wind and the rain.

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