On a western slope,
intertwined like rope,
snake like lovers aroused,
worn from being exposed.

These relics of the past,
loosing their grasp,
as lateral shoots are shed,
like tangled thread, that's dead.

But the tree stands firm,
in it's monolith dream,
from old forest spirits,
of Mother Nature, pristine.

With the dark sages of the forest,
from the top to the lowest,
increase in height,
as you ascend the flight.

Forming wondering staircases,
from their tree trunk bases.