The Restlessness of a Withering Birch

Birch leaves cower in cicada screeches.

A golden moon standing at my side.

Before the hangman's noose, I say, 

That it is simply a good day to die.

You couldn't let me go, 

You wouldn't let me meet my maker.

The heroes I loved are dead and gone,

And now it's raining for what I'm thinking. 

Too busily engaged, disposing of the sea,

The worst that could be said 

Of what was yet to be...

There was a drought on this conscience,

When thinking of you and me,

A pattering drench dried on a spillway

Sensibilities withering. 

I've been staring my problems down.

Second-guessing memories. 

Projecting "ifs" into a nightly void 

Fighting the hours that comprise my sleep. 

Dreading the dawn of day

Ruing my swaying nights 

These missing teeth due to gritting dreams

When dying for you, all of my life. 

How strange the moon seems,
One might fancy she was looking for 
Dead things.