Prose Poetry: The Tree

Prose Poetry

Old forest tall. Bark like aged skin. Sallow. You observe  far below, high from passionless understanding --such old wisdom. Quiet, unjudgmental, removed from your roots. Branches like tentacles squirm like so many thick snakes, the mind so far above the feeling they're not part of you. Watch as she writhes, surrounded by their embraces that leave no inch of skin untouched, without attention so that she is unable to escape --nay, has no desire. You watch on high, to the side and further still she sits removed watching up. The silent expanse, thread of existence that only love fills between the always there two extremes.

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