Untitled by Jackson (L’Fontaine)

Piazza Del Duomo, Carlo Carra
Walking past urban lights,
Desperately clinging to the willow tree, 
In the warm-cool September nights, 
Watching flowers wilt to the tempo of  ¾, with no plea
And yet, these flowers, with their blooms long past
Have in their dying, wilting moments, a darkening of color 
Which, long at last, with the reflection of neon glow blast
Upon the flower, shrouding its hue, becomes squalor 
And the willow tree in my hands, weeps–its lances 
Stab through my hand, spewing blood upon the ground 
Collapsing in front of me, the willow tree stammers 
And lets out a groan of pure, pure agony upon belowground 

The indifferent city lights shine upon the dying willow
Triumphantly, as if it's been waiting for its death since eternity.

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