Inexistent

The world is spinning, and I can’t make it stop. The stars are on, and I can’t shut them off. The world is tilted, and I can’t help but slip for I am beyond movable and inexistent.

The trees are dancing with the mirth of the wind. The grass yearns to grow and lives only to be trimmed. The leaves are descending towards the ground, as am I. Her tears drop to my tongue as I look towards the sky.

She screams through tsunamis, and her eyes grow dark. The earth shakes and trembles, she leaves this rubble as her mark, and in the fist she curls, she holds secrets unbeknown except to those willing to listen, those with an ear to lone

to her horrid, morbid stories of humans who didn’t care; to tales of knives and gunfire, and pollution in our airs; to lore of death and agony, myriads of misfortune to spare; and to accounts of people crying out from this lovely, bloody warfare.

Though, she warns, do not let this ruin the faith you’ve yet to learn, and do not let these solemn truths become your point of no return. Instead, let them wash over you, rinse your body with new sense, and know, with upmost clarity, your affairs are at my expense.