The Trees

The trees had eyes and they were all watching. The puddles on the side walk full of persuasion and pretty in the unendless thoughts crashing around my head with precision sine and cosine properties.
These ideas could only be found in nature not in an environmental nuisance made out of neurons firing only nonsense. There was more there.

The trees could breath. I heard them sigh not in sadness on a morose trip but in strange macabre discontent. It was the destination of much loneliness that had them locked in their quandary. A simple quarry became a large complaint for complaisance can keep you moving but only in place. A place of conformity that no one can see.

But the tress had eyes. Confronted with such surrealities the trees could breath. My breath grew short as the day grew too long into night. But the night put up her unholy fight for her secession without secoming to the light. Day to night dark to light.
The trees remained but not the same. Born again in the depths of rain.

The trees had eyes
The trees could breath.
The trees were me.