When time passes and the strings of her branches harden from its spot — life continues to go on. Even when the music stops playing, time never quit its soliciting bids for tragic goodbyes.
The blue oak tree stood tall while her leaves falling out in Autumn and a forlorn hymn plays around her — time is crucial and the world a rhetorical place of wisdom and grief.
She stood there everyday in stories and legends — her body an art of desecration with letters carved unsent, she stood there, still.
The blue oak tree danced on the mist of the sky — the clouds swished its billowy mass “life continues to go on” it passes, with certain reasons and uncertain excuses; the blue oak tree keep dancing in stillness.
The song stopped and she stood there, hardened her branches while her leaves keep falling out in Autumn, and the wind in stillness — there, she stood in years, without a song, without a trail of dance, without a life.
The blue oak tree died while her body is used as an art of unsent letters.
Writing this while I go home from work at 4 a.m. everythingoes by RM was an inspiration when I wrote this.