journey through

Murder Yesterday I walked down the road, to see if I could find the tree we planted, but it was not there, instead in its place a tall wooden fence. The tree was murdered, her fruits left for the birds, and in its place came a mighty fence, its heart plastered smack at the front. I walked by in a hurry, lest I got down and mourned, and I went up the hill. I climbed by the meadow that once was, and then to the place that the birds once nested, a barren patch of land. They had cut down the young flowers, and in their place stood demeaning posts. I got up the hill and searched for a place to sit. There was no grass like there had always been. There were no willows like they once were, and there was no life like there once was. Death and devastation was what grew there. Pain and desolation was what we left behind. When last were we under the tree? Oh, the day we fought, and I believed you would return the next day, or the day after, maybe the day after the day after, but you did not retur