The Lady of the Sycamore

Sycamore under the leaves at the base of the fig tree. I sit watching the River rush. Crossroads is where I sit. Sycamore and dead man the boats are full of souls and test the river. Afraid of the destination of the sailess boat. Clinging to the rocks, afraid of the impending doom of a loud, dark room of, eternity. I think I'll take a trip to a different level to climb my tree in the grave the in between place.the job I have been given.I sometimes wish I was living. Instead of giving the restless ,a bit of water to calm their souls.Im taking a trip to the earthly level,through a body I have chose to borrow,No sorrow for a moment.free from watching the pain of other sufferers'. I love the lively bustle,a beating heart,blood circulating so fast I can hear it pumping. Only for a moment a glimpse at the living. Once I take my lively vacation...i climb down my sycamore tree,to the base and I sit doing my duty.Alive or Dead,Oh such beauty