Allergic to Oak

And the sun rose today. Shining on you and the shadow on the grave.
The hourglass a bitter sweet sand to a sour past.
Rain showers last in memories.
Acorns falling, saying "bury me"
But please do it under a cherry tree,
I got an allergy to oak, my eye is broke as I watch them hang my effigy.
And if I had an ounce of cowardice I would leave them all powerless,
in a pool of blood next to me.

I've got an allergy to oak, my heart is broke,
beating to the sound of a bent card in the spokes.
Riding the wave. The shadow on the grave.
The cork scented smoke, angry incense and the moldy cave.
So close but out of the picture. A moment in time, a broken glass slipper.
A rotting pumpkin on a rusted stoop as the clock hit midnight and the porch light flickered.
And if I had an ounce of cowardice I'd tie a rope to a branch and fly out of this.

And the sun rose on tired oak. It shed some dust that made me itch, water and choke.
I got an allergy and a drying coat. So I shed the skin and cleared my throat.
 Steady traffic on the lower hill, I'm up here with only time to kill.
But I don't believe in murder, and I'm not a coward. So I took the time to fill the pot of blooming flowers.
Seems what I seek so close but outta reach. I had it all now it's just me,
a cactus and umbrella tree. I'm allergic to oak.