Why is it I see the tree, sometimes as if it was chopped down?
Each part into neat little sections, as if the cuts were intentional,
And I had something to do with it.
Perhaps I did.
Or sometimes, just getting out of Dodge,
Even though, now I look behind,
No one was chasing me.
A life is not made up of just experiences,
Homes and more.
No, it is the memories,
Good and bad which inform my next moves,
Or next stays.
Darn it, didn’t realize it was that simple.
Or perhaps it’s not after all.