In it goes

I spoke with my enemies and foes.

They croak and soak their eyes in bellows of smoke

And out comes… stark white bellows of smoke.

I gasp in imperfectly concealed mockery

Of the expected nature of danger but the unexpected nature of what’s to come.

We expect fear but are unsure of what we dread.

And darkening thoughts are just as petrifying 

As we sit in the silence of an empty field of withering grass.

And we look closer and see growing weeds, grasping at the roots,

Pulling and sucking the vividness out of the once prospering grass.

Through the field, the billions of dying grass wither together as one but know that some will still survive.

Pushing through the death force, unwavering determination, and brightness in their roots

And excitement and joy and encouragement blossoming even in the dark.

And it is then I am reminded that life isn’t as hidden as it seems.