On On Passing By

I was born in the swamp, raised in the swamp, reborn in the swamp...

My life has been spent toiling away that I might erect trees around me, never asking myself "what use is a forest to toads?"

I love many toads. I can climb and navigate these sickly trees of the swamp I call home. Could it be that I fear to leave the swamp? Perhaps it is that I fear the new trees, that I may not be the climber I think myself to be.

Like the painted soldier I too am painted. Incomplete. Painted on the line between swamp and forest. The creature that resides upon the line is hazy and unfinished... A climber or a hopper I cannot tell 

Will this work be completed?

-The Involuntary Hermit


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