An aged tree stands alone between
A sleeping meadow
and a silent forest.
Everything is lifeless, but
Along the scar implanted deep into
The rotting tissues of this single tree,
Explains our loss of
Of what is real.
Soothing winds mask reality.
Imagination evolves into obsession.
And we forget the scars
buried beneath our feet.
Tightly grasping our true identity,
the aroma of wild flowers softly
Allures our vulnerable minds, and
Drives away the possibility of
Growing wise enough...
to even be considered