Twisted

Once there was life. Promise and hope and experience. Building and sharing.

Now barren and dry. Scorched and then frozen. It can still share. It still shows experience. But no promise and no more building.

Maybe there is still hope.

Maybe there is a refuge for a small animal. Maybe kindling for a warm fire. Maybe a stick for a dog to fetch.

There is always something.

For everything that once lived, there is always something.

For eternity.

 

Dea Lorea

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