The Willow by PJ Kempen

The Willow
overgrown
envelops your home
with its blonde, wild maiden-hair
monolithic
atop the quiet hill.

Its roots spread out
like your raw, muddy toes
through the cool grass
beneath its canopy.

In the stillness
the low rumble of the gentle breeze envelops you.
A warm blanket on your bare arms and legs.

Run your hands through the branches.
Grab on to feel them pull back.

Hope in secret
that they'll pull you up
and carry you out of context.

Somewhere not bathed
in the sepia mist of childish ignorance
or the neon glare of the imaginary.
But they never pull that hard.

If you look through the branches
you can see the world outside
hidden
the things you're not supposed to see
the things you think are worth fighting for
because you'll have to fight to get them.
And you do.

Hands of a boy
mouth filled with words
you flee the quiet hill
to find something more  real.
And you do.
And it confirms all your fears
that everything that made sense was pretend
that everything you believed in was wrong
that everything you despised was law.

If you still believe or secretly hope
to be carried somewhere far away
do you wish to be back on the quiet hill
bathed in the sepia mist of childish ignorance
in the neon glare of the imaginary
under the cool, maiden-hair canopy
of the willow?