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One book of thoughts thrown from the head of a 5ft 7 inch tree at nite under a spotlight, wings of paper and a sharp tongue, but into some world it will fly, be seen, touched, held, smelt and if loud, heard. And all the time someone will worry is she ok? loved or lost, sad or happy, clean or dirty, rich or poor, full or empty? falling apart is inevitable, but the manner in which one drops and peels and scars is not. not the bits left behind, left scattered, maybe picked up and treasured or trodden on, it’s up to you. the one thing that’s sure is that it has a life and a life span. what goes up must come down.
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