I ponder how, the hair so fine,
How lips so red and sweet as wine.
Could get so blue, and skin so pale,
With veins dried up and body limp.
Waiting here, thinking how, somone so beautiful,
Could be so wrong.
Bones popped out, skin stretched tight,
Nothing left, an alien sight.
This black abyss, of lingering thoughs,
Of why it was and hadn't been stopped.
SHe lays here now, infront of me,
Sitting under the white birch tree.
Awaiting her non-return, still,
I wait for her.
She was to me,
A loving sight.
And now she's gone, and full of frieght.
I wait for her and Here Ill be,
Sitting under the White birch tree.