Underneath the holographic sky, the trees whisper forgotten secrets. Each leaf recounts tales of the last rain, capturing feelings painted by capricious winds. Spectacles of sound subsisted, rattling through air thick with curiosity.
Circling the winding paths, listeners turn into the question of existence: What do we know of our veins compared to the tributaries flowing through forgotten valleys? Each wildflower bends, marking the uncharted territory of sentiments grounded on invisible threads.
Is the morning dew merely droplets of disappointment clinging to corrupted aspirations? To gaze upon such transient beauties feels undeniably poetic yet committed to the violence of nature's indifference—it endears no soul.
In the lump of a heavy heart, beneath the layers of bark prose another often gets ensnared; questions linger and merge into another petrichor path to nowhere.