Round of applause under the sycamore tree
Till my hands give to numbness
How do they miss me?
These beings I have hardly opened up to
How do they care, when I only care for my made up remote wooer
Branches of the sycamore tree graze at my skin
Urging that I steady my balance
But really I’m unsteady
Held up by invisible wooers and persistent devotees
And I clap to the serenading air current, that whispers a truce
What am I chasing, fleeting happiness?
They fill my empty heart, these sweetings
But my brim fuller, only with thoughts of my wooer
Under the sycamore tree I lay, such a pretty photograph
But my wooer in an empty frame, unmatched, he tears it to shreds.