Weeping WillowWeeping WillowWeeping Willow
Down by the creek where the willow trees grow, On the roots, in the shade sits a man named Joe. In his hand is a Colt, 1 slug and 5 holes. On his mind is the weight of his failed old goals.
His prospects seem empty. His friends seem nowhere. He breathes a deep breath Of the cool autumn air.
He is blind to his beauty. He sees only his pain. Self-manifested torture Has bound him in chains.
While over the hill, his friends sit and wait The sun has now set and they begin to debate. Where has he ventured this evening
Lamina rc
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Freelance Graphic Designer
Århus, Denmark
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