SHE.
She, looked at her familiar surroundings, sighed and sat down, cross legged, tired limbs, puffy eyes, ragged skin.
No. This can’t be it.
She, picking up her pen and deep rooted notebook, sighed and starting writing; fragmented thoughts, disjointed puzzles, unanswered questions.
No. This can’t be it.
She, torn between half smiles and those half frozen tears; laughs.
No. This can’t be it.
The tree has deep rooted veins, the golden veins bulge on the cover, a backdrop of long brown winters.
The tree, has branches and leafs.
They begin to fall, scattering the brown earth like stars in the dark sky.
Her golden feathers crumble to the ground.
No. This can’t be it.
She, sits staring at her leafless tree, sighs and puts the pen down.
No. This can’t be it…
The roots don’t budge,
but
The branches still grow,
Seasons change,
Life once more takes ITs form.
She, sitting cross legged, tired to the bone; rejoices and quietly cries.
See, this is IT….
RojoTinta 