Rolling hills sigh.
No, I will not stay for them, I tell myself.
Yet I leave the container that grapples me.
I climb their sorrows. I climb their suffering.
No, I will not stay for them, I cry as I I cling to them.
Animals chitter with laughter as they scuttle by.
Who told you to grow into the trees that grip your ground?
Who told you that people were allowed to make you slowly destroy yourself?
Why did you let people build on you so they slowly demolished you?
*Why?