Between the fibril webs, dripping dew crystalline in the glare,
Yet yonder betwixt the tendrils a bloom doth loom the undergrowth,
Dahlia or ambrosia, neither less evinced,
In excess of apples and worms,
The beauty unlikeness to petal or fruit,
Nor weighed to deflorate by the evergreen.
As a stranger to the forest,
I've run amok the hillside,
And undone the earth with each selfish trudge.
I've littered the trail with the thoughts of my most internal singularity and emerged as legion amidst ancestors before.
Each lesson ringing true, made never to be undone with failure in pretense.
