I used to weep, I used to cry. But now I feel dead inside. I used to soak happily in the dampness of my dwelling. The streams of life were flowing through my twigs down through my leaves. But, I’m afraid there is nothing left but a dry vine that has fallen from the watery branch that gave me the life to keep growing. Refreshing to see a similar desiccated branch laying where I lye, only this one seem to be blowing in the opposite direction . . . the direction in which I came from.
Green was my color until the dark grey took over. Was this deep gloominess always there waiting for the best time to seep through and wither me from the inside. Now as the wind moves, I lay here motionless, colorless, stripped and cold. What happened to my warm branch that made me feel part of something deep rooting? I see the sun rising and setting, day in and day out as I get tossed from one place to another.
I’ve been picked up by a child and played with, thrown in the air to find myself covered in spit. I’ve also been used as a weapon, piecing those that were in the way.
Now my limbs have become cracked and some have broken off and lay crumbed far away from me. I have scratches all over me from the rugged terrain that even a slight sprinkle couldn’t heal. Part of me drowns in a puddle and becomes tenderly mushy, then rotten . . . and soon breaks off as well . . .
All that is left is this tiny sliver that once was this HUGE luscious branch that was decorated with such pretty colors . . .
I need some refreshing.