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And it Drowns Your Ways

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Leagues of dark clouds roll passed; jolts of blue scorch the forsaken ground below. The sound from the lightning strikes is enough to make an unbearable ringing in my head; it forces us to go indoors. A slate stone path leads the way to a place that is familiar to many. The jagged path mimics the bolts of lightning that strike nearer, and nearer. There is a vile purple haze that rises from the ground and suffocates those who stand against it. Rain drenches the parched earth; it is always raining.
At the top of the hill, the rain has washed away the bindings of the past. The entangling roots of a time lost oak tree are revealed. The Tree’s surface is scarred and lacerated. The Tree’s skin slowly peels away, trying to escape the confines of its earthly presence that brings punishment and despair. Many years have passed, and the Tree remains; the rain bombards it, and the little life that surrounds the Tree slips away, yet the Tree remains and stands only with the support from those of an earlier time. The echoes of the past scream out with mercy from beneath. They are quickly silenced. The Branches stand tall and we bow our heads to the four that remain. From one Branch hangs an old glass container; we are not told what it was supposed to be, but people say it used to feed creatures with beautiful wings. Another grasps a rope that is singed from the storm that seems to emanate from this place. Below this is a petrified tire, grey and misshapen. A man once tried to conquer and seize this place, and what remains of him can be seen hanging from the largest branch of the Tree. His arms were stretched back and pierced to the Shell of the Tree, as were his legs. Over time he deteriorated as the water bombarded him. Vines crawled up the base of the Tree and wrapped around his legs; crawled toward his torso and penetrated in and out of his tissue. The water clings to the vines and circulates down through the body and drips to the earth; it is always raining.
We have learned this place cannot be tamed. It will rip the soul out, and mangle the hearts of those who try. There is no mercy, and there is no remorse in this place. The days are months and the months are days. One cannot tell when life ends, or when it begins. Nothing changes. The man is the same. He is bound to the Tree and takes the constant onslaughts of raindrops as they beat against what is left. Everyday; the rain never stops.
Nothing changes. Time ticks life away, and the ravaged atmosphere violently pulls the life away from anything that has hope, or ambition. I try to comprehend this place in thoughts and my dreams, and each time, it seems that I get pulled deeper in. I do not understand how this came to be. But it came, and we did nothing. The Tree still stands… The Tree still —


When will I wake up?





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