Tall be the oaks, that tower above the forest, Broad be the oaks, that stretch east to west, Extensive, encompassive, everything below, they shield, Protective, predatory, not a ray of sunlight they yield. There was a time when each was
Nestling in the sun, tethered to the strongest stem, Looking at cousins in my shadow, I laugh at them, Basking in the glory of my sun, I miss the impending grey, I should have listened to those stories of the
Wind glazes the edge, causing ripples on the surface, But soon there is no blemish left on its face, A stone stirs up ripples from its bottom, Soon all that is left, is the stone at the bottom. The first
All activities have ceased, but the dust refuses to settle, As if in deference to every hard-working man’s mettle, Sadly the hard work is no longer worth its own sweat, But dust is the only thing these sons of failure
It never ceases to surprise, the emptiness that makes up the inevitable, It teases, taunts, it makes a mockery of everything that is believable, And it never goes away, morphing into a vacuum that feeds into itself, For, the soul