The soup is getting old.

The colours have drained from our world.

It's like.

The ponds have been deprived of water.  

Like how were deprived of love and affection.

Were all so desperate but.

For something far worse.

We want the unknown.

We want the colour we don’t remember  

We want the bark.

Thats embedded itself into our children.

We feel ourselves slipping.

Our emotions twisting.

Our hearts squeezing.

At times it hurts so bad, but.

The pain reminds us of were alive.

That hot tensing in my ribs.

The clutch of my palm against my chest, My heavy breathing.

Late night panic attacks, nightmares.

The ones that croak. Their.

Taunting us with their dull.

With their lack of dept and care.

They blend.

With the bark on their bones.

They Grow.

Like how branches reach to the top.

They Take.

And they do not give.

Their taking land we never seen.

We're losing so much.

We never had before.

But we still wish. We still hope.

Even when.

there isn’t anything to grasp.