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Our genetic material rund rife with strands
𓄃𓃦𓅆𓁡
𝕳and in hand, they'll go and go, towards the forest so green— only ever to dance for the moonlight that is not actually to be found. It's like a kinda moebius strip, a snake always swallowing its own tail, that is mutually assured destruction, might've, or mutual consumption. They'll be find to the house holding every sorta part of somebody. Just kept walking in the same footsteps that's in the moss just for you to follow. This had been far too selfish for Paloma Gavey, a selfless girl, with the crooks of her body and her strikes for the leather ball. That it is where she finds most of her security at, bound to its tang of solitude much too freely— just mind your being, girl. They witness your selfishness beyond bigger things. Here things starts to narrow to a strict world, a heedless one at that.
This caged bird stands to the grave of death as (her) loud screams would've started on shadow over that nightmare screech for the younger to the oldest trees in the Wilderness.
Still with her feet tied together.
It'll be out in the marsh reeds one bird cries out in sorrow, recalling it to have been something better and likely forgotten.
However the lover of her bird had loved and went faraway. Borrowing her wings, as Paloma had kindly given, for her bird to leave her. How unkind of you, bird, it is a sad thing done. Paradises won't appear between her wishes to become and much too high expectations, when in her own sense, Mother Nature couldn't bring her anything else but that one gonebird... it's not a bad thing, be sure. Paloma has bloomed like a flower (or used to) sadly. But with her skilled soccer plays and teammates, in just a few years, she'll be rested and catch up to her faded humanity which had went wild and never found the end of the woods. Hearing the birds flying, still, above her head as much as birds are capable of before they'll turn to the green grounds: Paloma Gavey has no idea what kind her bird is yet. Not for right now... hopefully sooner, yes. But as nobody's trying to push it too high to her throat, with whatever they call 'losttime'. Paloma had only ever lost everything else but her aeon.
As her fingernails was still dirty after feeling the nature under them, allowing her pitch-black-night hair feel the sun from beyond's warm handed touches. Up in the sky, where it could see anything— whatever nobody could. All of nature. All of their birthsake, and why to be touching death. Where Paloma Gavey is turning to them, effortlessly becoming our (the nature's) exemplar. I ask. "How many times do you love without her ask?" then afterwards, "How long had you loved a thing more and less than whatever requires?"
