Roots Left Behind

Hunting seeds of you

I walked miles to see you. Each step closer felt good. You were vivid in my memory.

I believed you'd be there, waiting by the river, living by your promise.

Wrongful hope, bittersweet feeling, destroyed faith.

All I found was a desolate space. Gazed and confounded my soul cried through my eyes.

Your roots left behind your soul scattered all around your spirit dimming in the air.

Yesterday, a sacred space, today, a haunted graveyard full of dead memories.

Now I scavenge the dirt, hunting seeds of you for this heart to live off.

Nature has a way of talking to us.

The poem above came to me as I was slapped in the face with what I was seeing — or rather, not seeing anymore. I usually do my walks around forests and rivers, nature bathing let's call it. As I arrived at one of my favourite places, which has a fantastic view over a path of trees running by the road side — well, had… I was surprised that all I could see was a long strip of stumps, no branches or logs anymore, no leaves or remains, just a cleared out space with the stumps as testimony that a row of trees existed there. Hopefully they'll grow once more, yet I'm afraid to return and see that not even the stumps are there anymore.

A sad, very sad vision and premonition, almost disheartening…

It made me travel to a time where I felt like that, not over nature though. If nothing else, it gave me the opportunity to root out past ghosts.