A fortress for us in the forest.

Sure, azure, a slur

in the blue above.

Soft, slight and shiny.

Sheer and sleek not shaking. 

A wake of wayward warlessness.

 

Broad and open the winged Earth breathes,

breeds a batter of lives and leisures

fed on silence, the pure milk of the forest

and the new born future learns indifference

and the tolerance of forms.

 

The co - existence of skittering beings

and the unobtrusive witness of things alive and beating.

New, near, naked and naturally numb.

 

The maturity of dying beings

leave in their will

the gift of their organics.

 

The perfect communist reproduction of the natural world.

 

To gain through giving, the prolonging of their species.

To live, to cease and to breath posthumously

in the great magic trick of failing creatures.

 

And the creatures give their death,

their death's fuel for life and in return

they become

everything.