Biocentrism
It sings through a blossom tree at the cemitery.
It whispers secrets and caress my lungs.
Its not like summer's rashness
With such volition to emancipate and destroy.
I'm not that young,
I can't be any more sunlight,
I shall become wind,
Murmuring old concepts of freedom,
Known to moutains and old rivers.
To shout is to waste gorge,
As scorched souls can't grasp yet
What was supposed to terraform a mind.
There is no fall,
The winter is ravenous,
It comes before leaves start turning yellow,
There is no midstream between vitality and demise.
"You are alive", I could try,
But there is no louder sound than life itself,
If one can't hear it's clasping roaring,
It'd be a profane attempt to wake the dead.
Leave them to die yet existing,
They'll someday feed the Tree.
Unconscious roaming souls who don't want to live just slumber,
And awake someday as carmesin flowers,
Hanging on vines of eternity.
Life always finds a way.
Let's pray for the undead flowers.
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