The painting

The wind, it howled one fearful night
The distant crashing waves, it sprayed
A lonely tree of awesome might
It grew, but withered in its shade
The rain, it fell so thick and bleak
Whipped up images of grey
Not close, not far, no soul to speak
Unhinged, the battered tree upon the ocean spray
The cold it crept upon the sand
And numbed travelers near and far
Who saw scenes of bliss unfold itself
While the tree battled on its own land
No lighthouse shone the whole way through
No beam, no road, no distant light
For weary travelers and boatmen few
No light for the damp tree by the side.
Ships that cast their lives aside,
Break across the cliff in furious rage
Stripped off robes by mirthless deride
The show goes on, but comes of age
The lighthouse gaveth no shade
Neither did the ship nor sailor
Respite from warmth, the tree gave away
And looked for other places inside.
The dampness had set in deep
Of a quality, gnawed in and soft
To find some warmth, it must weep
No stranger to its ideals loft.
It flickers and burns and grows again
Despite the darkness which oft creeps over
Rises above the sad, the shame
And rests in peace over n over
The tree of life and all that we're told
Stands by the edge, in pain but glory
A single flame of life behold
Gave a soul to its endless story
A painting it stood, it hung on a wall
To some, nothing but a cruel stance
To some, a story of hope and bliss
To some, merely a picture, no words
To some, a languid work of art
To some, a true story
What you see, so will remain
The painting or the tree or the soul of glory.