Welcome, you are currently reading, the not-so-well-written poem.
This won't be a waterfall,
of blue flowing drops,
which is cleansing your pool of sorrow;
It is not the rain falling from the eyes of angels,
It is not the blue dome that clears out afterward,
Or the green leaves, or the bees gathering pollen;
It is not a songbird, who in its own ecstasy,
will go on flapping and soaring
from branch to branch of the willow
that are shaking in the wind.
You still remember, those times as a boy, sitting in the tree house? A place you visited in times of woe, when grand-dad and his pipe and his creaking chair didn't hear your boyish voice so well.
It was nearly empty, yet cluttered. Strands of ivy reached for you through the windows. Noiseless, aside from the rustling, and an occasional animal grunting or bird song.
It smelled of dry moss, rainwater, and dirt. Not unpleasant, just natural, pleasing.
You would have stayed there forever, in your box, your secret place. Dazzled by the blu