Shadeland

The breeze is pale and choking
A haze dripping impurity on the world
Not your world, just ours
Not my world, just theirs
A dying branch on the sentient tree

The grass is gray upon the ground
Swan songs belted from our hearts
Our hearts in the air, the trees, in ourselves
Drowning, struggling to catch a tear in the stream
The better have yet to do their best

Swept under the rug and left to starve
Now the branch has broke
It floats down stream, riding on a tear
No place left to go but down
This, the shaded land, here, I remain