We All Die Old (day 503)

The water pushing past the secret doors of the needle riddled floor
Sing to the lonely leaves forgotten and rotting amongst the mushrooms
The trees that have spewn forth their dying seasons
Happily lap up the dotted dew resting a while in the sunlight
And spiders that haven’t eaten yet this morning
Share the same edges of bark with the sleeping moths
Burrowing into the nice alcoves of hidden mysteries
Stretching between the years written into the aging forest
With squirrels keeping track of all the scores
Hunting out that which shouldn’t be forgotten
But in this season of time that dances amongst the shoots
Where the fresh birds chirp happily to the echoes of the canopy
There is always the runner, he who ensures nobody gets comfortable
In the center of the trail he kills with rubber
The youngest of them all, the new growing sprout

But the earth is all life
The change is all good
The circle grows bigger
And we all die old

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