| Oak |
| What do you see When you look at me? Do you see a lovely rose? No, for I may be lovely for looks, But my scent is not so sweet. Perhaps a dry cactus? Close but not quite. In extreme Circumstances I am cowardice. The withered Oak? Yes, this is me Remembering happy times, When I was lush, When I was proud of the girl in the mirror. When I was loved. When I could love. |