Inked Sins

Under a shroud of stormy grey,
A tree sways a mournful sigh.
This urge to disappear, it feels,
A burden reaching for the sky.
This urge to run, to bend and hide,
From storms that lash its leafy crown.
This urge to stay where it once belonged
In the sun and rain with a silent cry.
Why, why, why? the tree screams,
A question whispered in the night.
No answer comes, it stands alone,
Enduring storm, wind, and the lonely night.