The ridges of his palms
Spoke the names of the trees
His tarnished hazel eyes
Wrinkled at the crease.
His bleeding heart had long since
Turned to soldid stone
As he ventured into shadows
In a hollow bark he called home.
Train to train, venturing
Back again, and twice
His name was carved in pinewood
Nibbled on by hungry mice.
The leaves rustled around
In his weary mind
In expanses of loose land
He felt oddly confined.
Now he lives upon a mountain
Hight above the raging sea
Timeless, yet not forgotten
Lies the chiselled pinewood tree.
In-Between 