Art and Scribles

Don’t know what to call it yet

Sherlock, Season 4

Trees speak the words of the wise, Those wise that already lived their lives. Their voices speak up from the ground To the trees that respectfully stands as guards. Those words of old from years ago Are spoken with the softest sound, Spoken in languages that on one learned As the trees try to pass on the word. But no one listens, the words unheard. Listen to the Ancient sounds, The wisdom the trees try to expound. They flow through the leaves as one voice, But what is being said, is from more than one Of those who are dead, and passed on.

She climbs the hill of waving grass, Searching for the Lilly flowers. A woven basket in her hand, Tied with a single strand.

A ribbon, blue, flutters in the breeze As she get’s nearer to the trees. Her skirt, swirls around her bare feet As she listens to the birds tweet.

Her heart sores as she nears the tree That holds the heart and love of them That met there and let love swell.

Two already stand at its base,  Only one with a familiar face. Standing together in an embrace, So the girl runs and hides her face.

The tree stands still, unable to move And unable to tell the truth, Standing still, learning the tale, Of how sometimes, love fails.

A row of thorn, twisting, curling, Their jagged edges reaching up to touch the sky. They make a path, their earthen colours  Deceiving those who see, Luring them in with promises of blossoming red roses. The traveler walks along the hellish row, Discarding his soles and clear thoughts. To the left are flowers in a field. To the right jagged rocks. But the thorns look delightful, cloaked in false promise, An allusion of beauty. Thick blood covers their greens and browns, Laughing in sickening glee. The pain leaves the traveler suck on the path, afraid of the rocks Yet ashamed to enjoy the flowers. And so he followed the thorns, Without his soles.