Why what peace you must have. A lovely tourniquet follows you around like a plague. It invites its victims with a wave of apathetic endearment... Later to be crushed under the air they cannot breathe, because they are not of your kind. Can no one love you? Are you such a kind that waves the sight of containment, at its loss, never at its gain. Never understanding... Only fearing. At a time, you will be haunted, the lonely air will freeze at the sight of you. The trees will wither with your face, the sky will darken as the fog brazes the wind it travels. The sun will find you, but die soon after. Instead the moon will have you at your soul, but even keep its distance. For never will you have it. Never will you see it, gasping, emotions running deficient. You do not allow anything justified, you only desire wavering trifles. You wish upon the forest, the trees that are dying, the trees that search in sake of societal gain. The trees that give up on themselves to follow an importance. The trees that hate themselves, and convince themselves otherwise. I love you, but even that has its faults.