The weeping willow

The tree stood lone, 
its long branches swaying in the wind, dancing for anyone that passed by. 

In the tree, carved with a pocket knife from the boy with the broken eyes,  Read the words "Save me" 

A revolver, cold and hard to the touch sat tucked away in a small shoebox under his bed,  His hands remained within his pockets, clenched in fists.

His hands shook and shook, vying for the touch of the smooth, hard end of that hidden revolver that sat tucked away in the box, under the bed in which his little sister used to crawl into when she'd get scared. 

He would enclose his arms around her frail body to help her forget the screams that surrounded her in her own home. 

It had only been a month since the cancer had tied a noose around the young girls neck and the boy with the damaged soul had lost every reason to live. 

He remembered the day he had carved the words into the trunk, and found himself back at the tree, carving again,  two brisk words,  "You lost."

With one strike to the wrist and another to the tree, underlining what the tree had became for him,  He fell to the ground.

A lone boy and a lone tree,

A lone boy and a lone tree.