In A Forest Of Hope, All Is Not Lost

In a forest of hope, all is lost. The sound of intimidation and reverb splitting the branches and breaking through the chipping knots. The noise of waking, blindly played into its place a swift and solid shaking.

In a forest of light, all is forgiven. The insects and animals behave as one being, becoming unique as each one delivers into the day, a treasure cemented by its new found bravery. All light in their eyes, all spectacle surrounded.

In a forest of sin, all sin is equal. The depths ploughed alone ones of venture and vanquish, tarnished and tragic. Casting out two rows of jealous lilting, sweet and softly the voices heard from heaven, they remain within.

In a forest of darkness, the night is a lie. To a hopeful wonder spilt on a soft spoiled promise, with the aching of millions bled into a moon of purple. And beyond, up up and beyond, to the darkness as our souls become one.

In a forest of trees, each one alive. And torn into the dead ache of muddy mashes, emerging to a greater sense of purpose and falsified by style. Reworked and revoked, each leaf construed by construction, these trees shine as if forever never leaves.

In a forest of hope, all is not lost. The remains of trickling water and subtle sound and passions plied under duress, the counting of ticks and solemn smells withering the wonder where the dew bells lay. In conversation with passing time, in glorious aftertaste and meddling minds of May. In a forest of hope with a swell of dismay, there still beats the promise of each day after day.


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