Wormwood

There flows a bitter spring in depths below, umplumbed
When everything goes still you can hear it roiling
Boiling, pounding against its confines like a drum

Clawing for the surface and snarling for release
Pressure building fueling struggle, lighting fuses
But it loses sway near surface to shallow peace

Sunbeams reach through branches, try to touch the shadow
Softening grey stones with hues both warm and golden
Still cold and alone, they look a bit less sad though

Come birds, sing your songs louder! Dogs, why don't you bark?
And we'll talk with voices raised against the stillness
This illness in the ground, rumbling beneath the park

There's no reason to fear it if we can't hear it.