lonelynature

You hear it offhand, 

A whispered word floating to your ears,

It’s a falsity, preposterous, a rumor,

Of course it’s not true,

But even still,

The tree stands tall,

The leaves an acid, disgusting, green

The trunk a rotting, putrid brown.

The trees were once something to smile at,

In a time forgotten long ago,

I’m a blank sheet, a book unwritten,

A sponge, as dry and brittle as the desert,

ready to soak up my surrounding,

no matter what it is, no biases,

I’m so busy now,

Even when I’m not, I’m busy,

Online, scrolling mindlessly, thoughtlessly,

Deeper and deeper into the well,

My history is written,

Enclosed in the minds on those who knew me,

Twisted and fractured.

Changed by time and perspective,

Stored in the records of the country,

Silence, loud, deafening silence. I can’t look her in the eyes, but I can’t rip mine away, so I stare. It’s not awkward or anything, I mean she’s staring too.