The willows don't weep,
Their arms stretch forth;
Reaching, grasping, hoping
To touch a heart they've never held

His eyes stare out from under the drapes,
Blackness around and no one to hold
"A little further" he thinks,
"And the red rivers can cease"

"One cut, two cuts,
Three cuts, four
Just little slice
And I'll feel no more"

"Dip the blade, draw the ink
Write a pretty poem in red
Stop
Think"

"Up or down?
Left or right?
Draw the feather lightly
Or push the hurt deeper?"

"Hum a ditty
As I draw new lines
Sing a song to Mother
Tap my feet in time"

Under the green folds
He sits
The melancholy flowing freely
Staining the grass to life.

The willows don't weep,
They drown the boy in sorrow
And he can do naught
But stare.