Caught up in the appearance of it,
The inner movement means nothing.

It does not matter the bending of the tree,
Only the color of its autumn leaves.

The glow, the sparkle, the flash, the color only,
The darkness within, the silent movement is nothing.

Pretty to the eye, soft to the touch,
These tactile stimuli are sought after.

Astounded by the beauty on the outside
Terrified of what lies beneath. The unknown.

The summer sun is so beautiful,
What then of the snow? The dark clouds?

Is not every silent movement of nature,
Beautiful in its own form and nature?

The appearance, my friend. Pluck and pull,
Tighten and pin. Paint your face on.

What lies beneath? But the echo and rustle,
Of the dead, sullen, dried husks. Dead souls.