05/23/07

Zen Blade

No alternative

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Adaptation.

That’s the world I must use to describe life in this pit of desolence we call a city.

Life flourishes.

Birds cry out and plan and trees sway to the movement of the wind.

Gently crooning; gently swaying.

Plush, smooth feathers, gentle, glowing green leaves, both caressed by gentle breezes.

Are they really so happy here?

Have they come here out of their own demise?

What if the birds are weeping instead of crooning?

Are the plants and trees withering away, trying to escape this pathetic existence in this horrible hellhole of a city?

Withering and dying, till they know no more of this suburban wasteland. This sorry excuse for a community?

Weeping and crying.

The birds. The trees.

My soul.

Adapting for the time being.

Adapting.