All kinds of Days In me it is birth, a tree. Alive a tree of Life, with all that it has. A solid and robust core full of nerves, plenty of matter. A wide and open field, full of ramifications, plenty of chances from sky to soil, from light to dark. An all full of time, bloom and wither, dying yet alive. For all that is worth comes it’s great disease, Life itself may be. It’s misery and it’s bliss comes without warn but consequences of it’s own living. A tree might be simple, at first it’s just a tree but holds all kinds of lives, all kinds of dispositions, all kinds of becoming days. Life happened to me, once a seed was and now I am. I am a constant growing founding miles of ages under me, letting my marks lead a way into infinity. My soul is forever a predisposition for rising and redemption for falling ; in time I can not keep forevers. All kinds of days have had happened to me, days where my branches, fell against the Wind, days where my leafs, pushed to the Sun, days where my flowers, bloomed with the Water, days where my roots, dug into the Earth, and even if, Life had happened to me, I am still. Waiting for another day, till I fall, till I burn, till I crack, till I become, something other than Life itself might be.
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