Woods

smooth face rough mind as the one grows the other resembles it in the bare gray woods on last year’s leaves you might come across a person who lives there who won’t tomorrow and this is not the only way in your rough mind in your unoccupied hands remember pitch-black woods your hands invisible following the noise of the one before crashing through for the next to follow branch sting and did you make it home that night maybe and what was home the thing about running through the woods is listen your stupid trust don’t stop