There’s a weak soul beneath the weeping willow

Yet I hear a small buzz from their radio

Signal is lost and hope has gone with it

While a poor old soul is forced to submit.

From my park bench I sit an watch

The playing children and the Geese flock

The late bloomed flowers

From summer showers

Yet the soul and vessel I watch from a distance.

Looks awfully detached from existence

As I see a speck of rain

Drown my friend in pain.

The soul I don’t know

Yet I’m oddly attached

If only he saw what I could see

Maybe, just maybe

They’d leave their tree