A Dirge and a funeral

I wail before my own decaying soul,
I weep over the corpse of a dead tree
the tree I saw, wistfully, in my vague reflection,
wryly, grinning back at me.

Its seeds I carried beneath my skin,
nurtured them with blood, my own
I tore my flesh when I sowed them down
Watered it with tears until it was grown

My dreams, I fed to the soil every morn
And Oh how I cried when I saw the first leaves
Visions, sure I had, of how it'd rise
And Oh how I cry now as the tree bids me leaves

In the torments of the burning sun
Did I not stand beside you for shade?
Notwithstanding the whirling tempests
My arms, your haven had I not made?

Did my love clamor loud of intention?
or covert perhaps a surmise of greed?
Did I shelter you because I expected the same?
Would I rape the self of my own seed?

My whims, urges and all my dreams,
I bred underneath the branches you grew.
All my pain and all my secrets,
oh when were they ever secrets unto you?

And then the drought of empathy when struck,
and dried your soil of fathom and discern;
and they punished me for dreaming, and rebuttal,
For compassion and forbearance, my heart did yearn.

I sang to you my serenades in our days,
and oh how you'd sway as if it did pour;
Now I chant you a requiem as I bewail unto thy mort
The carcass of the tree I once envisioned soar.