urban charm
A plot of land; faraway,
To the countrymen who plowed, dismay;
Their sequoia would indeed disobey,
She did not espouse the life she’d betray—
Is it the same as the path they lay?
Thus vacant; her visceral forte,
To fit snug, in a clean-cut beret,
And no doubt, she’s been verdant every single day,
But a dainty willow— doesn’t sprout that way;
They put the balsa at full display,
staggering height; the peak pruned away,
Wrapped in hundreds of layers of bark and sachet—
Lush; not the shriveled shrub, they saw halfway;
To her face they say:
Bad soil made him grow that way;
Juneberry, sugarplum; please don’t fray,
Watered with an empty canister, with his sway;
Rusty tin; but never face to face at my underlay—
Well, be uncertain, if you may stray;
Because you counted the saplings before they sprouted,
They never; they never stepped foot in turmoil, never accounted
All of it is in disarray;
That moniker is now passé,
Whether a cherry blossom, or lilac by a frivolous bay,
Burn the barn to debris, or have it decay;
I solace knowing— I will always be that way.
agile stag