Today glimpses of trees' elegant fingers stretching out towards the sky, to what many construe to be freedom, were caught in passing. Held and treasured. Till that it was, they fell. Down, down. They lay there - how is this so? Skeletons of our history. Bare. That is not right. Your calling was up not down. How dare they take away your destiny with their planning of futures. But you whisper and tell me it's all fine. Soothed and nostalgic we continue on. Their victorious blades. Your downfall was literal. Your leaves will never flourish and you will not give bountiful shade to the space you inhabit. The sun can not reach as it comes to greet you. So we shall weep, be selfish, for whom are we to really understand your loss. I wish to know you and open your door. You let me in sometimes, it'd be foolish to ask of you more.
An illusionist's staircase. Houdini's most fascinating. The buttons fade and trip over one another. I would maybe wish to wake from this paradoxical sleep, one day. The recurring nightmare of not opening the door you all shout and kick for me to embrace; let me more. Please just let me your arms. On consideration later; do not. Keep me beneath, for above the waves would be too worthy. I go nightly, the 'witching hour' beckons. There is always to much to say and so little space for it to be elegantly considered. Infatuation with what comes next makes the beat drum on.