the crinkled pages send a cloud of dust into the air when they open
so useless, unreal, ancient
but the roots of the tree have long since grown down through these pages
grasping for anything it can hook onto
solid, steady, grounded
this is only to find its rooted itself in an object whose seams could disband at any moment
disrupting the very structure
the branches make their way to the heavens
twisting, turning, reaching
through cloud of thought an uncertainty
the base is wide but each limb becomes paper thin
so fragile, fleeting, transparent
the leaves seem to spring from the branches with no warning
some even have eyes watching and examining the damage below
oh, the mysteries they must see
the questions they must have
where does the line between fantasy and reality disappear?