The Pulsing Forest
He was in awe of the pulsing forest’s glow,
deciding to capture this perfect picture:
to contain and cabin this image into his treasured black box
piled with distant and cherished memories,
the growing oak tree stood tall and arching
standing firm like the lamppost ingrained in concrete
and there she sat, the Moon, with her back on the growing Sun,
her elegant shape fixed by the Painter
for he knew what the perfect painting had to be,
the Moon ever so still, so that she does not disturb nature
as it grinds its gears, grunting over its decaying state,
for it wishes to hold the same fate as the slender Moon:
to be put into deep slumber swiftly by the grim painter,
so that it can remain in rigid position, never able to grunt in pain again:
a deep sacrifice to be remembered as an immortal figure.
