The trees
They live in this forest
They whisper they breathe
Wanderers can speak to the leaves
Often times seeking advice
For wandering into this forest
Many don’t think twice
Seemingly there be peace among the green
Lures adventurers not so keen
Lingers shadows of mischief unseen
But the trees they tell the tales
Just like men sitting around drinking old ales
If ever found without direction
One only needs to stop and listen
For the trees will make the connection
Either to lead the soul back home or drive them deeper into the dark unknown
In this forest it is for the trees to decide
Who is worthy of their time
Fate is determined by the heart
Sincerity of the question
Is meant to teach important lessons
Determined by the trees
These answers come with ease
Either leading the soul back home
Or deeper into the dark unknown
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from McKenzie McQuade and writers in Poets and other communities.
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis7 days ago in Humans
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.