On days like today, I sense a cold wind flourishing inside me, making room for the thriving tree of my desolation .
The same tree that I’ll sit beside when I’ve no-one, the only thing that keeps me sane, when my delicate heart plans to turn into one of the bleak winter days of Europe.
When the only noise I’ll ever make, will be of silence, while I constantly fight through the noises in my head, I’ll have my partner, my tree.
For they say, trees don’t leave until the leaves dry out completely.
But what if a plant abandons its own seed, its own flower to be plucked when it hasn’t even blossomed fully once?
For the tree is my support but what if it dejects me by neglecting that I’m its own seed. After all it has flourished inside me
Am I someone’s dried leaf or a tree that ramparts in the bleak winter or desolate days of grief?
Guess I’ll ask myself when I sense a cold wind flourishing inside me.