The shaking of the pinecone
It stays holding onto the branch
The only thing it has every known
The cold air pushing and pulling it
The only break is when it feels
The scorching burning sun on its back
Held on by the singular string
The string outsiders had tied
Not knowing it’s story
Now ask yourself when you are
Cold, burned
Tied and stuck
Will you change your path
Your home?
Or will you too
Be a pinecone
Left to hang on a withered string
For all eternity?
