KYLEWILSON

As still,
still as the soft echoing voice of reason,
the trees bend with the awkward world of which they've created,
a light reflects upon the subtle witness of such movement,
calming the waves with the warmth of a thousand souls,
expanding outward regaining the third horizon.

She stands,
still as the breathless en devour of confusion,
guided to what she has been awakened for,
with closed eyes the path becomes visible,
with steps not touching the ground,
she moves her shade, crossing her color.
Outside of solitude and within the grasp of fear,
alone she stands strong,
alone she sings.
with every gentle note, the trees unwind.
The last sound of time is the song thats sung inside our mind.