On certain days the wind makes the last leaves dance, they rise and and glide without the hindrance of limbs. Layers of falling of sun-infused, of rain-soaked shimmering lay at my feet. The corvid calls from the skeletal canopy, breathing life into these wooden skies. Happiness has plans for me and I hear those plans whispering without conditions. A lifetime of searching for something impossible….. not now. Even under the greyest light this love fulfils, no song yet written can compare to the symphony laid out before me. 

Seed heads on gravity’s pull fall silently full of the greatest inheritance. They are the feet in the future, it’s on their limbs that we shall slumber at dusk only to wake beneath the glow of distant constellations. I look for deeper meanings in all the things we fight for, but it doesn’t exist. Humanity is a selfish book in dire need of repair.