The Truth Behind Trees
By Tom Dearden
I look through the trees of
The forest below me.
As the fog descends, enclosing me like
An insignificant letter in a foreign envelope,
I hear his muted voice.
The frosted glass image of my dad
Moves frame by frame into focus,
Trapped in a condensation bubble in my temple,
Like unwanted mucus.
I try to breathe; I try to run free,
I always cry like the wind through my trees.
The decrepit smiles of the oaks
Imprint on my forehead, like a fingerprint –
A giveaway to my irrelevant human identity,
Telling me who I am, and what I should be.
If I could live in the trees or just be free
From constraints, relationships and even me.
If I could see my dad for one last time,
I’d show him who I could never be.
For fear of failure and loneliness too,
I walk through my forest in search of the truth.
To answers that nobody really knows
Why are we here?
Who sold you the blow?
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