I wonder, as I wander meandering down meander lines, whether meaning lies as simple lines, or branches like the trees about which climb aloft, just as with meanings and intentions, I can't see the endings nor the roots of soils retention, which are buried beneath just like it is in us hidden and only revealed; in a small and concealed mention.

But my attention is not broken, like the fallen branches as gifts or tokens, which lay snapped and separate at my feet, disorganised as soldiers bodies who lay dying on a war ground in defeat, along with these comrades are kept, autumn-ed oranged leaves of trees, that crunch beneath my step and fly within the breeze, as the wind ebbs and flows around me, as the forest breathes.

Though life is as equally as around me, as it is walking down the road, somehow I'm more comfortable amongst these, though they're as equally unknown. There isn't stillness, life is here, the forest flows and moves and it feels like kin are near, that the branches pushing out are reaching like open arms to hold me, contrary to what midnight shadows and horror stories have always taught me.

These contorted, twisted statues so stern and certain, that you are drawn behind the curtain into worlds beyond your own, far past the treaded paths that are to us so comfortably known, to dimensions pushing out into further, by mother nature to preserve her unknowns, these haunting hollow hallows happily taken as adopted homes.

All my wonderings are clearing as the forests edge I am now nearing, all those thoughts I had been fearing are lost and bliss is searing on my mind, though the future is where I’m headed, to the present I am tethered, gone away is the dreaded past on those treaded paths I leave behind.