The fields here were built to call my name with twisted old metal
That once might have been efficient, now rusted with the weathered years,
Gnarls over the landscape like little streams with no boundaries.
If the skeletons of once useful people littered abandoned country fields,
I imagine they’d look just like the old spokes and chains and battered machines
That have trialed and passed these lands: Beautifully ancient, wonderfully trashed,
Forever engraved with the energy of its previous life, now gaining the wisdom of mere existence
And it is in this, this life, this path, this breath now taken in this very present moment
That we, as creatures, have strayed from:
The indescribable art of being
Being one with the growths that will eventually experience a miniature death
To in turn sustain this material form of flesh and thought.
© /skin/ /ˈpōətrē/