the wavering tree

the rolling stone 

the shaking plea 

a place called home 

a hopeless need 

chilled to the bone 

a want for warmth 

and a shoulder to cry on.

to get out of the storm,

and to never be left alone 

but that hope was tattered and torn 

a good thing she had never been shown.

all she knew was laughter and scorn.

the cold and numb was always present always known,

shown not the rose, but only the thorn.

to find nothing more to shine but our tombstone.