An Oak Tree

What is this place
in my soul,
reflected in
decaying realms
of subservience?

Where do the rocks
and trees begin
and do they feel
the wrath of emptiness?

No response is necessary
as i immerse myself
in all
that I crave.

It's bluish green
and extends in to uncertainty,
like an Oak
that kisses a river.

It's clean and old.
It's new and inspiring.

It gushes white water foam
and leads me
to all I need.

Everything makes sense,
but nothing
is labeled.

Nothing is real,
but I feel it all.

Confusion
about illusions of anything
confirm that
all is true.