Withering under its heavy-laden boughs
The old Magnol-tree stands
Forlorn in its solace.
The shade chills and no grass will grow
Beneath the blossoming branches
So isolation permeates even to the roots.
Sweet wistful poison, spread around the air;
The drowsiness is contagious
Leaving Rip's snore far behind.
The white petals make gaudy the despair.
Death encompasses this sweet shoot,
And it only wishes to weep more bitterly than Willo.
A dampening wind mocks the Magnol's plight,
Laughter twinkling temptingly in springtime sun,
Just out of reach – an unknown pleasure.

A crook in the roots reveals a sight:
The bed of a child in murdered sleep
The only marker, the stains of passion on the Death Tree
The only sorrow, crocodile tears
To water each tree planted
To cover the marks of slaughter
A gift, mother to son, as of unwanted kittens.

So does Death enshroud Itself
In flowery gauze and violent memories.
Seed to tree, grown in blood,
Gives pollen of Eternal Sleep –
The Sandman's choice drug –
A fragrance long forgotten but ever-present.

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