Lost Bearing

The hills tumble over one another like swarms of bees. You walk slowly through green meadows caressing each bud with feeble fingertips. The whir of birds singing long and weary tunes cry out. lonely, lonely, lonely. The world is large. Feelings so long sequestered away, and tormented. Bliss is hard to find. You lie down feeling the dirt between each finger, and inside each palm. The rumbling tides roll on. The end is far from near.