The Forest

A forest, it is dependent on its trees

Without them, a desert's gifted a long lease

We lean, on our thoughts

Without us, they become insignificant dots

Existence uses all of its forests

Except for the mind, the rest are at its behest

Seeds, the hidden hand behind its magic

Thoughts can also be, how we use them is tragic

A wild and dangerous place, but a forest remains honest

When hunters arrive, there is no protest

The image may be soft and warm, but the mind cannot be trusted

Its investment, into our awareness, has fully vested

When we begin to chop the inner forest

All hands come together and can rest

Living will become a melodious song

The mind will no more be a forest of right or wrong