Orchard, Grace

Orchard

It was an orchard once,
Bearing rich fruit, dewdrops,
Love.
The trees fell to parish, becoming winterscape among the tenebrous shadow of disphoria.
It was my own shadow, my own chillingly feverish qualm.
Whosoever went walking here was a hollow sentiment.
Such might have been my calling among them, the trees.
They conceived my very assimilation of the empty that perforated me.
Clad in black dresses, I would go walking there, the folds of my train a death against the snow.
Standing beneath the tired life , I would wake reversion to pensive essentiallity.
Confidences could be found in the trees...
They would pitch in willowy weakness, void of life, void of voice.
We spoke though, another language.
It was the silent kind, contingent by truths and perspicacity.
There was lenity here, a freedom from the throes of the world.
Somewhere among the unlikeliest of creatures, there grew inarticulate kinship.
The kind that strengthened me to stand up against the tolling bells that drifted here.
Roots of my world lay here, aloof in the shadows, bound to the forever that I would share,
Caught in the sigh of the only orchard that knew all.

Grace
Thought this was kind of cute ; )

It was there that he left Grace,
He left her without grace,
For Grace was not Grace
When he graced her with leaving.