Decay

The woods, aye, they do decay, The ivy creeps forever upwards From the ground to the canopy, Up the trunk that rots from within. Branches fall gathering at the root. Dead branches pointing skywards With squirrel drays and bird's nests Exposed to the wind and rain And the wailing crying wind. Man, he does decay from within. When once immortal love dies And the shadow of emptiness Creeps over his languid body. When memories of happy times Form a vacant dream like state, And the ever silent spaces of once Happy thoughts pervade his mind Now dulled with a morbid melancholy.