The Trees left Unsaid

Sometimes the wind blew.
Sometimes it blew less than what was left in the air.

“Come with her. I'll take you places,” she said.

But when you arrived,
the space was so surreal— it was empty and vast, the space was so delicately
surrounded by everything nature could provide yet nothing at all—something uncanny was felt in the wind.

The wind blared at its worst
when it was fifty feet in the air,
tossed amongst the darkness of the trees and the brush,
the rocks and the mush.

The trees so beautiful,
yet so dark,
tainted by the icky wind.

The brush was weary and flaky,
rustling as it blew alongside the trees.

Not even a mere thought was left said by the broken trees.