4

I’m falling in love with a million branches of trees on the field of dried up grasses. Don’t get attached, don’t get attached, don’t get attached, I whisper. Spit it out. I can not belong to this field wherein I can not understand my soul, or I just couldn’t? Standing on the figs frolicking in the fashion of whirlpool. I cannot breath, I cannot see, I cannot dream. What hope there is when the shadows reach my thigh and grip it hard enough it until it dies? Maybe a little, maybe soon it will all end like how the grasses go brown and die, and they shall meet their source and decay to soil. They turn to soil to fit in. They turn to soil to fit in. They die, they decay, but the greens will never do anything, but turn to soil.