Soar

I thought i saw a tree, all brown and grey

Waiting endlessly for an unknown change

There are those who write stories, and there are those who don’t

Then there is a me, who comes to truce, although there is no muse

If only i could pause

Should I look out for some light ? Or should I put on field glasses ?

A part of me rebelled

The lakes seem silent, those were uneasy currents

I am here and there

And yet

I do see the tree, all brown and grey