A cracked oak lay in wretch at the brow,
That hill which sinks under the sun
Breathes an air that gushes forth fear,
To have looked upward and sees there
A storm, so few around but yet so mighty;
Here beckons that I walk and yet stooping,
Bowing my head and observes the rocks,
Panting but not shaking, to revisit again;
A wondrous escape, and soon myself shall find,
Greener land that sparkles in the midst of land,
Wherewith water glitters in passing of light,
And so great that never shall darkness sweep,
Thus behind were a living oak but o now weeping,
A silent storm that dies again and reborn proud,
To strike at the greatness and so down my soul,
If only, but to hide in the crack and hide away,
So dark that I shall tremble for all light again,
Never reveal me never, nor never shall I thereunto;
How warm and moist the darkest close I shall resemble,
Deliver that bark unto me that antidote I shall respire,
Grief if mine but cast away the sanctum lost,
To slowly walk away hours later, and find it still,
Now soon running down the hill, thus I trip and bleed;
But yet that mighty oak still stands albeit broken,
So similar as we, but so too shall break eventually;
Shall break, and I shall see it never again, alas;
Bark by bark, and soon with no leaves may unearth,
Uproot thyself and soon desire another view tumbling,
At that point, the sun is lost and so have I gone.

Nature, Poetry, Works
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