Oak of Wood

As the tables turn, I ponder, on the wood. Tap, tap. The oak of my soul sits in amusement; amused as one could think to be. The thought of my sense of color in my soul, a looking glass like growing old. The embedded classification of youth; colorless because of something that is true. The point I want to make, to live, life. Life in the tread marks of how you live aren’t my footsteps but my feet on the ground, the ground of the world that leads me to my next, stepping stone. I come to notice that the bigger the rock the tougher you love. Tough love or sensual love; rocks are like a grain in embracement of a solid in statement. Love should not be stated, I think, thinking it should ponder, like the oak of wood.