His Wait

To this day, I wonder
Why did he sit
Beneath the serene oak
In the crook where he fit

Was it the chirps
Of the birds flying by
Or the psychedelic dance
Of the sun’s rays in the sky

He would sit and stare upon
The little dirt road into down
Never flinching or stirring
Till the sun goes down

Then he would go home
Or so it seems
And get down on his knees
And pray to see her in his dreams

-brunus

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