Climbing the mountain to find the forest but

it's gone and all that exists are lonely stumps.

The angry woodcutters came and took them far away,

far away to the land of imagination.

They only exist inside your mind but it's

too bad that your brain dead , an autistic shell.

Not understanding the anti-attraction they emit from cruel centres when

you are so sucked into their vortex that takes the form of a chocolate covered sweet covering.

The dizzy feeling swirls around your innards – phlegm shoots up in the form of exasperation,

you cannot process the language but you process their beautiful literature, craving and admiring.

The stone in which you worship and grieve over a bearded improbable being that

shows no natural mercy but rather, supposedly, adores you for sinning. Wait

That's incorrect and I know too well that everyone is deceased because of my reasoning of

only blowing, exploding and now myself abuse backfires towards my very own conscience and

consumes itself within itself. This vicious circle repeats until I collapse within my own self and

existence is no more except for references that exist in the public records.