Sitting on the dead tree
Strange
Arguing about age
Debating about age.
Surrounded by a pocket of wild.
Bark stripped from trees.
Leafs and underbrush.
The soil is old, but young on top.
Reaching for the stars like I do.
The wind blows through the trees as they whisper into the air.
Just outside this bubble is a civilization of ridiculousness
The wind has found me in the centre,
The children creak.
I breathe among them.
I think I can like here.
It’s the right kind of quiet.
It’s alive.
Elucidating Questions 
Leave a comment