Lost In The Past

Where the sky meets the earthy ground, the horizon sits elegantly, the bush and trees bloom on the first day of spring, the nesting birds chirp, sway, and dance in the wind, and the gold blaze covers the prickly, bristled thicket, yellow rays of sun balance on the swaying branches in the gusty, biting breeze, like a boat on flimsy waters, golden wattle vibrant, yellow, strong and tall.

But the colossal tree reaches for air, as the greedy weeds climb up the broken, raw trunk, a symbol of unity destroyed, shattered, and strangled, by a deranged weed.

But as the vibrant wattle was once far and wide, across the mountains, and the meadows, the trees grew inferior, now growing in gangs, less and less every day. Suffocating in tranquility, accepting fate, but the trees tell me secrets, they whisper into my ear, and tell me secrets silently. The trees are missing, no more, gone, absent, AWOL, and they are lost in the past, with no escape, like a character in a book.