Under a cloudless sky of questioning, the insects breathe,
There is no one here to judge,
But the tiniest of beings.
The worms aerate dirt,
Writhing in the soil of the soul.
They wiggle into the smallest cracks,
Learning and knowing our every secret.
Nothing is sacred to they.
The tears we weep,
As our secrets are unwound,
Feed the soil.
The soil turns to silt,
Silt into sand,
Slipping through our fingers
And all we are left with,
Are the judgemental worms,
Full of our terrible truths,
The tiniest beings,
They whisper our truths,
And all we can do is mourn,
For the loss of private thoughts.
In the stillness of that moment,
The trees turn,
The largest of beings,
Great sequoias,
And they listen.
The smallest of beings sing,
The largest of beings bellow out low notes in tandem,
The words lost in the sickening sweetness of their song.
Our awful anxieties,
Serenaded to the world.
And it is mortifying,
The secrets we hold so dear,
So close that we aren’t even sure if they’re ours,
Or some made up fantasy that we call the truth.
Those secrets are the only thing we have of our own.
Reality snaps,
And we are alone in the forest,
Once again.
Secrets safe within our soil.
The tiniest of beings have moved on,
The largest of beings have turned away.
We are not important enough to hold their attention,
For long.