I was born a pear pluck’d from the bosom of nature,
And I shan’t forgive those who ripp’d me from my home.

When knew I would be born,
I never expect’d to be struck from the lawn.
And when death comes,
My nutrients will be exhaust’d from my lungs.

At night, The sky ripen’d with many a sequin
Makes suns dance on my green and freckled skin.
With no love from their cart,
I sit, and let the roots enter my heart -

And allow the fungi to feed upon my philanthropic flesh.

A rodent sat atop the cliff of an inlet,
its whole life built upon service to an instinct.

Staring down at the rocks upon which a wave rolls,
here the world now makes sense, to the heart, so thoughts sink'd;
'The tide rolls, the world turns, and the mind too controls.'
There it was, all it knew, thoughts a beast must forget.

The creature, thinking hard, in a mind gone awry,
breathing fast, barking loud, as the world falls, alas.

A world made not for life, but for gods left behind,
the realms just a mistake, shattered like broken glass.
Some will claim that a soul makes you one of a kind,
‘but truth lasts,’ says the rat, ‘longer than you can lie.’

The thoughts end, lost to time and the ebb of the tide,
wisdom lost, now rendered lost ideas brought to nought.

Where to find decent wives, tasty bugs, or berries,
but what of awesome truths, off limits to one’s thought?
Things that play on the mind, in grief, deep it buries,
left to fend for itself in a sea of tears cried.

The tears flow, but the legs move forward toward less,
lesser things seen before, known by five senses worn.

The pup cries and the rat comes to soothe it’s own heart,
and old food, left behind by those whom evil saw,
drew them near, close to death, in the wood’s safe charade.
Near the grave, souls converge, all made one in distress.

The great warmth the gems glow clarifies such soil'd souls,
'The tide rolls, the world turns, and the mind too controls.'

So, ev'ry force of nature show'd
the shatter'd ways the crystal glow'd.

A gemstone fit to lose our minds,
that let us know such things remote;
the broken ways the aura binds
the empty days that time had wrote.

This world was made to counterplot,
now earth’s inventions wait to rot.

In tangled vines the world calls out,
through all the cracks it promptly got
from days or years as shards about,
and now all order earth forgot.

And ev'ry force of nature show'd
the shatter'd ways the crystal glow'd.