I am watched by the familiar trees
that tower over my head as I lay to
rest on a pillow filled with ambition.

This courteous view of a field so high
on immature spirit and tender cries,
never fails to seek love and hope for me.

Me, a sack of bones that sits alarmingly
awake and aware of the clouds as they
drift solemnly but surely into my eyes.

I will try to acknowledge and love the
others but it's the sounds, not noises,
I dwell on here, and cry at every night.