The Apple Tree
When my mother, thinks well I rest in my bed
On Sunday night till monday morn
Oh, here I sit, in our favorite place
With tears hot and hurtful.
My mistletoe, my rightness.
If your hands, we’re still on me and your warm breath
Gently hissing against my cold neck
My shade, I wouldn’t look
Under this thorn tree.
Stretched out on the earth
Mourning the loss of a young boy
Who’s body I reside in
And the rain, and wind and sun all kill me in equal measure
The task I had, to love and to care
Even at that, I failed.
So I stray from this land
Off to be with myself where I am better
Off to there where there is no harm nor betrayal
Far away from my friends and relations.
Where this war between my head and my heart shall cease
Dunca9n 