Wildfires


A puddle that's dried up; a paradigm for love that's been torched.
The binding together of memories between existence and extinction.
A person A population A pondering
When the last of a generation expires: genocide.
Yet, death is normal, formal, obtuse. A generation dies and
it's not genocide. Death does not murder, but pulls the fallen
from their lifeless forms. Where do they go?
An unequivocal question denoted by humanity to be ignored.
The soul of a lifeless limb conquered by life and broken from its
roots. The leaf falls but to what end? Degradation.
Once all leaves have fallen off the last tree of its kind: extinction.
The modern tree is a memory of the fallen. A gift from evolution.
The pursuit of humanity is the escape from death. One rush here,
one rush there, a short happiness before a forgotten life.
The impact can be subtle, or it can be harsh, but each important.
The tie between everything is the looming terror of loss.
Lose a friend, lose a family, lose a love; it's the irrevocable
connection between the insane and sane.
When the world is crashing and the abundance of confusion
glides over the eyes of a grieving soul, the urge for empathy
from other leaves of the same forest holds them buoyant.
The curved leaf holds a drop of water from the rain that
sheds its tears of the lost tree. Leaves that are never to be
seen again, but remembered. Growth sprouts reminiscing beauty
that remains. To examine the past is to brave the specter,
but to mitigate is to breathe awareness of mortality.

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