In silent solitude, The Primeval One stands, In a forest, Of shifting sands. It’s only friend is the Man in the Moon, Who sits in the skies of ink, In the darkest hour of the night, The time when shadows, Hold their wild parties. The Primeval One winds its roots, Deep into the dusty earth. An unheard sigh, Unfolds from deep within, As the Primeval One, Stretches its once-glossy leaves, To the sun. In the day, It dreams, Of its seedling-hood, When the big, scaly creatures,
Ran amok, Trampling any young plants who got in their way, The time when it wasn’t lonely. Years have passed since then, Those joyous days, When seedlings grew strong and stood proud, Beside their elders, Jostling for light. The Primeval One has grown old, Its roots long and its branches wide. For thousands of years, It has watched the world change, Sea turning to sand. It stood by the sea once and the waves, Would tell stories of faraway lands, In their gentle wishy-washy voices. All was right with the world, Until the coming of man.