When I have claimed nature, its beauty will have gone up with the rain. All the
things that the senses encounter, they force to assimilate, with
the force of my existence and their whims. Everything
is pantheistic. Language is
Going up with the rain. Sound is collapsing. Beauty is
lost with the wind going sideways. I am the
benefactor. Giving beauty and grief uncalled for. I am
some perverse cyclical argument; illogical but pragmatic. My soul will be colder, when I have claimed nature.