The Tree

In the heart of a desolate moor, 'neath a sky ever gray, Where the mists cling to earth, and the colors decay, Lies a tree, old and twisted, its branches outspread, Whispering tales of the long-lost and dead.
The ground 'round its base, so parched and so dry, Cracks and splits, reaching up to the sky, As if begging for tears, for some respite to find, From the weight of the sorrows it's kept confined.
For beneath this old tree, in the ground cold and deep, Lie the secrets and memories the moor chose to keep. Of lovers departed, and promises unmet, Of regrets that the living would rather forget.
Oh, the wind howls its lullabies, chilling the bone, As the tree stands unyielding, in darkness, alone. Its leaves rustling softly, in mournful reply, To the pain and the longing of the land's desperate cry.
In the vastness of sorrow, where time seems to stall, This dry, barren place holds the memories of all. And the tree, ever watchful, stands guard o'er the moor, A sentinel for souls, forevermore.