Trees in the summer bake
whilst humanity awaits for a tell-tale fate.
Conceiving a "meant to be" ideology
this lack of freedom haunts me.
Summer trees burn waiting for a winter sun to turn.
Summer winds bellow as a fate entitled Autumn brings leaves across a  Rigormortis totem.
Does a maple aspire strength to be an oak? rather esquire on the sweetness within.  As without a conscience such things might never be seen