One. Love is hard to come by.

Two. I am the watchtower in the woods,
crumbling but still standing, peering through two
lopsided turrets. They do not let anyone come up
to me anymore, let alone gather beneath my slate
shadows, cold wings for those fleeing the city.

Three. I see it all: the young running ahead,
trampling my brothers underfoot; the old trailing
behind, clinging to my sisters for stability; the
creatures, tentative and scouring; the beasts,
brazen and boastful.

Four. I see it all: the seasons, the fall outs, the
hurts, the haunts. Love is hard to come by.

Five. I see it all: Time weaves grey hairs into
young and old alike. Time weaves ivy into mine.
No one bothers to tame the wilds about me any
more. I mostly do not mind.

Six. I am the watchtower in the woods, base
slowly dissolving and mingling with loose earth,
but still standing, offering my warped protection
for anyone able to brave the erosion.

Seven. Love is hard to come by.