The world isn’t as it seems,
on paper and in theory life is but a dream.
Ink fades, ideas drift away, and forgot is the lost paper.
Unaccounted factors effect the words as does the current of a stream.
It never stops, it drifts it’s own course unintentionally,
This water feeds the roots, so sprouts the gnarled branches of the crooked tree.
It is an endless cycle, one falls, but sewn is it’s seed.