The cinders of memories linger, pulled by the noses of foxes, evoking endless corridors under moonlit dominions.
My thoughts, like specters unable to flee, dance among ancient oaks in whispers the forest claims as its own.
Are you ever asked what the splintered trunks would share, were they not entrapped by soil and age?
Fragments of conversations, muted and swirling, slip through boughs like fog over fallen stars.
Each hollow ring of wood hints at stories straining to escape, held captive by nature's inexorable grip.
Perhaps every drop of dew captures legacies unseen, watched over by spirits of the timbered void.