Phase

The wind in the trees plays a melody so sweet upon my ear. The smells of the grass pull as I pass and try to draw me near. The light on the hill causes time to stand still, waves at rest upon the shore. Yet time waits for none, the moment is done, the world turns once more. So fast that it cracks, it comes rushing back, the present’s massive force. The earth groans under stress of the weight that we press, feeling no remorse. Holes drilled in the ground to start fishing around, for the wealth that’s hid below Ignore signs in the skies that warn of demise, and pretend that we do not know. The smell of depression and doctors suggestions, seeps from peoples pores The wind in the trees carries plague and disease, which eats you from the core. The light on the hill is stagnant and ill, blurred from smog and haze. Yet to the young lies spurt from old tongues, saying it’s just a phase.