The frailty of a distilled existence.

It is what you make of it. Who am I to limit your meaning by my own?

Everything was in its place
apart from I.
The trees and leaves filling the plains
but I was in another
severed from solidity
a place absent of materiality.

Suspended like a fog amongst the trees
unable to find thee
a cloud detached
filling in the space between
nothing
but a gloom suspended
through a smaze of obscurity.
I look to the trees,
for a place to be.

Grueling to gaze beyond the trees
for the brume of darkness
enveloped in me

I cannot be.