Waiting
She sits; a pile of crumpled rags,
beneath a solemn ancient tree.
She is there among the fallen leaves,
as though she is a part of them.
Her hair amber and burnt,
once shown like vibrant jewels of flame:
it now takes on the duller hues
of autumn closing on winter.
There she sits, her clothes arrayed
as though she were melting into the land.
Behind her the ancient tree laments its leaves
and gives what comfort it can.
She is lost to the world now,
not knowing from where she came,
how she arrived at this place, or even
of being at this place.
The tree and she are all that exist.
They share a great pain,
the death of the world
and of themselves.
©Dark
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