The clocks leads a funeral march,
Pacing the window's dance,
Her ebony forest limp,
Roots exposed.
Her topiary veil,
Maintained and civilized.
So the truth is often treated,
With careful hands and silver pruners.
Reaping the luxury of breath
She misses beat and tumbles
Sap bursting from her parched lips.
No sooner to be potted and staked.
