A small square of land has been selected,
Signs of something detected,
I quake.
Not at the thought,
All you've brought,
All that will not be,
A reflection of me.
The branches lower down the trunk begin to twist, contort,
They’ve slipped into the ground and sunk,
They're not your sort.
I work against the patterns because you do not fit one.
Late night drinking and hours playing,
Wine and scrabble fill our time,
And in those brief hours you’re mine,
I see it.
The reflection of...
Years of frustration begin to leak from your eyes,
Sliding away - freedom,
Years of delicately planned lies,
This is your bespoke kingdom.
This is not the way I'd thought you'd be, reflection of...
Something in the not too distant future.
