Inside the wet rotting wood
Slowly aging and breaking apart
The insects infect and destroy
What was art.
My foot is the future
The pressure is now
That the forest is full and grows
To be all that it knows
Is the nature of things.
The trail must be cleared.
For all that endears is not
On the ground buried under
What fell and needs to be found.
The nail isn't here.
Stop looking for lies in the dust
And the dirt. The word is not wood
For the good of the eye.
What was composed makes nature alive
Not dead.
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