Rotting Metal Pines

The moon is low, so I smile(d) at the dark sky and the stars that shine. I speak to ones below. I let my feet grab the ground around the rotten metal pines. I move slow. My drowning thoughts catch wind of a fine breeze, and are brought to the surface just in time. Met by a dull glow. And yet led away to a spot between two tall trees. What was dark is getting darker. The cloud overhead is a monstrosity, I hope it don't swallow me whole. My hands, in fear, grab whatever's near. And the time begins to tick quicker than I thought was possible. It was a fallen stick of pine, it was something I could yield if foes broke (my) fence. Something i could use in a panicked defense. But feelings I felt soon pass(ed) fast. So I broke that pine stick, and choose it for shovel, not sword. And I dig myself a hole, somewhere to sit my (tired) spine. I take a glance. The moon pulls my inside tides. Makes me question what's real, and even what's not. So I crawl(ed) inside my head, 'cuz it's all I got.