What is the real reason for my inner voice?
Is this ego?
Have I whispered so loudly
To all Grandfather trees
That my echo and sensations
Are no longer my own?
Has my inner bird
Whistled alone
In surrounding scenes of chaos,
And called home
Mother Hen
Whom I sit under this great canopy with?;
Oaks and Elms and Maples.
Does my voice match my vision?
Do I see sky blues,
And earthy browns,
With forest greens all around?
Or have I become muddled
Lack of colour:
Grays, black, and cement.
