Clouding

Behind the uncontrollable urge to reside my essence in the form of its true meaning
I walk up and down the street
Ruminating on time buried under the dark warm earth
I put my ears to ground and try to hear
The soft murmuring of the movement of still life
Unaware to our naked eyes
I follow my gaze from the base of a trunk to the highest branch of the tree
Wondering why sunlight loves to sieve through it
The water that grumbles on a disturbed layers of sea
What do they tell or do they even crave to?
Proving their presence. Or is it their essence?
That they have found out after immortal years of their existence
And if they have, how do these things of nature actually feel now
Specifically after becoming tools of mere selfishness in the very intentions of ignorant humanity.
With this unanswered inquisition I return back to my own cloud.