This tree is like a grand poem of the living world, a king that encourages the spirits to dance though the woods. It sports countless knots, twisted into hard lumps, and its clever roots slither and spin into the deep earth. This tree is a silent observer of all that has been.
Humidity encases me as I slump into the seasons of leaf litter, soft and embracing its transformation into loam. Shoots of bright grass stretch upward, striving to gain the upright poise of the surrounding fields. Moss, too, grows soft and blanketlike, providing a crash mat for the grass shoots in case they were ever to fall. This dead stuff beneath me is going to provide new life.
Why can't it be the same way with me?
YOU ARE READING
Entropy
Short StoryA story about love, despair, and chaos, told in fragments. Her screams echoed inside the glass coffin. I heard them. She scratched her fingernails bloody on the hard case that kept her inside. I felt the blood trickle down my own hands. She pounded...
