Everything is ugly sometimes.
The tree that grows from a seed stands dying in winter.
Rotted fruit lies beneath.
Once sweet and alive, it caves in on itself, shriveling in the cold.
The tree provides no shade for there is no sun.
Only gray.
Diffused light that covers life in a blanket of misery.
Quiet seems only too apropos.
Artificial death calls to end this; fittingly.
dm.
3 comments:
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