I remember when I was young and I believed in the trees and all the things they’d sing to a sinner with open hands. My sorrows were built in the Eden of their glory, the leaves whispering verse of such uncharted sands.

These are the king of lands that swells but I shall never grow old in.

I think that the heart is too impatient now with time forsaking nature’s whimsical glance, why haven’t we the space to pray anymore? Why?

These questions grasp at me endlessly and yet the answers remain elusive still.
Old as the grave, I am now a wandering human. Yet, caught again between the trees. I carelessly step upon the branches of the things I once worshiped in state of my youth.