Therese Gramercy . . . the girl named Trees

Garden Cherub on a Pedestal


Why is it that men place me up on a pedestal?
Why is that my place? Why not a comfy chair down the hall?
I wouldn’t mind being on the ground floor with all the rest
where I could truly become real friends with these men.

Why do men make my image into an ideal?
Why do they prefer viewing me as their ultimate dream?
For when their dream becomes their actuality
they forget the soul encased in that shell, who is me.

My body is only made of common skin and sinew,
when will they realize the key impact of this truth?
What will happen to their ideal of me on the day
that my adored outer casing shows decline and decay?

Where is the man who desires no illusion at all,
who will release me at last from that absurd pedestal?
For he is the one whose heart and understanding I seek,
meanwhile waiting up here all alone, I grow weak.