Come, To Think Of It

When at a morning my feet touches the cold earth,
or what mirrored it into our imagination deeper,
it meant dying
i'd rather feel the grass under me.

I'd rather have a twig cut a bleeding on a bare foot,
causing pain,
than touch of false moss, under me

When i stalk this flat earth
rather hills would i adore
when i see false homes
homes for no wanderer to be.

I'd more love the shelter of an old fir
by day, under her cooling chadow by night hidden
from the star's light.

When illumes the strange lights
competing with life's own.
Held 'em prison i tell you,
held 'em in illusions.

I'd rather talk with the sun
see the young birch brought to life
and by night, sleep under a free moon.

When the wind turns north
brings forth the cold
i see death fleeing to death
life left alone.

I'd rather smell true death
wash myself with burning leaves
and by night, sleep under