Its fickle rivers run through
Like veins from the heart.
Memories breaking like twigs of forests
Fading along with the black of night
As silhouettes amongst the backdrop.
Its concrete division of breath
Like tears of a newborn child.
Truth and Catastrophe
Like the devastation to a wasteland
Words drifting on the whim of winds.
Its remedy to any ailment
With the subtlety of a thief at night.
The moon on either side
Silver lighting as the lime light truth,
And shadows dancing with the stars.
"The horizon will always be just over the ridge of sight; however, if one looks around with open eyes everything that one desires is right there at their feet. " - Authors note 50