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.

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