buried deep in the heart of a forest
under crispy leaves,
damp moss
and black dirt
there lies a heart
beating, blood red
It's veins seeps into the roots of the trees
making them sway to an unexisting gust
making their bark pop, and sheeding their seeds
onto the ground that eats it up
and feeds it
the heart that pounds
the very core of the nature that is
existing, simply, untamely existing
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