From what tree Do these leaves fall That now lay upon your head? Emblazoned upon Your forlorn brow, The tragedy of a withered crown. From what grove Do these roots spread That now search for richer soils? Reaching up To break the ground And wrap you in its lonely gown. And ever you crawl Deeper within yourself In hopes to quell the pain You've allowed to define you Every thought becomes a seed That grows into a vine of guilt And every day, its grip grows tighter And you've become its slave Yet still you fear The shell you'll become Asking yourself, "Who would I be in its absence?"