While wandering in a field of read I realized the world didn’t revolve around me. My ego called and said it wants its attention back. Carousel dreams like plastic horses made for entertainment move my footsteps in circles. Now words in this field become distorted and the message runs. Who am I to ask the trees to bleed so I can comprehend what’s going on? Not everyone will understand that blood from a tree in this field is ink on the page, well versed. Bled to make sense, laying on a ground walked on by wanderers. Crossed in thought. And disraction make for confusion causing lifegivers to give life in vain. There’s no more room to think straight.

And now that it all makes sense, I’m left standing still in a crooked position. No longer wandering just wondering over the course of steps I can’t take back.

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