a new dawn { puppy | blitz }
Sept 16, 2017 15:40:22 GMT -5
Post by calla on Sept 16, 2017 15:40:22 GMT -5
o p h e l i a .
The trees of seven have their own language. Creaking branches and rustling leaves, a symphony of the forest accompanied by bird song. It's a complex dialect, dangerous and far too easy to lose yourself in.
Luckily I learnt how to speak it long ago.
Following a hidden path towards the heart of greenery, I walk surrounded by sweet solitude. A whistled tune hangs in the air as the bundle of forget-me-nots in my hand leaves a trail of fallen petals.
It's easy to pretend now, that the cracking under my feet is from the browning leaves of autumn and not the snapping of my father's bones that lay hidden beneath the dirt. Haunting the forest is second nature now, precious time in the one place where I can be alone with my thoughts. Pricking fingers on thorns, the flowers change colour in my hands and I still pretend that everything's alright.
Because waking up before dawn is just alright. But climbing the old willow tree to watch the sunrise is even better and that's where my feet guide me now. Sitting in the tree as a watercolour sky fades into fire, I drop the petal-less flowers to the ground. They belong with all the other dead things now, lying secret and hidden under the dark boughs.
I've found that the trees are good at keeping secrets.
Luckily I learnt how to speak it long ago.
Following a hidden path towards the heart of greenery, I walk surrounded by sweet solitude. A whistled tune hangs in the air as the bundle of forget-me-nots in my hand leaves a trail of fallen petals.
He loves me. He loves me not.
It's easy to pretend now, that the cracking under my feet is from the browning leaves of autumn and not the snapping of my father's bones that lay hidden beneath the dirt. Haunting the forest is second nature now, precious time in the one place where I can be alone with my thoughts. Pricking fingers on thorns, the flowers change colour in my hands and I still pretend that everything's alright.
Because waking up before dawn is just alright. But climbing the old willow tree to watch the sunrise is even better and that's where my feet guide me now. Sitting in the tree as a watercolour sky fades into fire, I drop the petal-less flowers to the ground. They belong with all the other dead things now, lying secret and hidden under the dark boughs.
I've found that the trees are good at keeping secrets.
