The Moor

A mist sweeps over the desolate moor.
A place where plants cling to the ground.
To their perception of life.
The front of the mist rolls forward.
It curls around all obstacles, filling every nook and cranny.
You cannot escape it’s presence, just try to ignore it.
Convince yourself that it does not exist.

Dotted on the landscape,
rising above the norm,
there is a tree.

It survives through its deep roots.
Deep rooted, where there is always nourishment.
It towers above the plants and will survive
even when the plants die.
Death through lack of nourishment,
For they have no roots.
No security.

In our existence we cling to terrestrial things.
To our logical model of life.
Anything that does not fit we reject.
We cling to life.
Life that is all too fragile.
Ignoring the mist.
Mist of love that descends
and penetrates everything.

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