Oak Cold. Dead tendrils wind , circle, destroy. The bark peels, flakes. The trunk groans. Supposed wisdom gone, a future gone, a past worthless. The heart groans, aches, screams at the futilty of its fight. There was no warning, no omens, no storm. Just the cold and the end.
Smoke In The Sky Whenever i travel id watch the clouds. They morph from dragons to dragonfly, vast valleys of of tranqulity and peace. Id delight in the calm and serenity. Untill now they'd seemed a place i could escape i'd imagine cidadels full of #life, i'd imagine the people who lived in them and the memories they created for themselves. I was always happy with my head in the clouds. A inocent child fresh with morning dew. But no-longer.