There’s sound,
around,
alone, aground.
No beach, to see,
nor shore there be,
to safely hold,
this surviver told.
The trees they seem,
so lush and green,
in forests lush,
it’s depths mistrust.
To find a land,
sure to stand,
say as my own,
years there grown.
What of man,
that seems he can,
make his kingdom,
build castle on.
Nay, keep,
where sleep,
no fears emerge,
a fortress stirs.
Yet be it he,
where can set free,
all that around,
in solace is found.
To grown,
to know,
wherever may go,
be he, that be,
only.