O wayward pine,
Lamenting in your bower.
Just how content are you?
To frolic in
The night's grey sky?
Fixed in that position,
To watch each passer-by?
Does your tall trunk ache?
Do your limbs all weep?

O wayward pine,
I see you fixed across
The lake of time.
Can you look past feeling?
And see a world sublime?
You are not a simple tree,
As any learned man precieves,
You're a steadfast manifesto.

O wayward pine,
Your might decayed, and left
A longing in its void.
I'd rather be a legged man,
Blinded by his open chest,
Than gamble my religion,
In hopes that I'll not fall.
Although a man may tumble oft,
He'll once again stand tall.

O wayward pine,
Although your rigid reaching limbs,
Will never be slave to sobs,
They lack man's strength to embrace.
I shal smile on my dying day
(as you sit there and rot away)
Having bartered anguish for a soul.
Your life devoid of rhapsody is
O bitter-sweet.