A WORLD CALLED ATARAXY

The forest speaks the language of tranquil 
It's rift, weeds, leaves of creepings and trees 
Have a terrain more real than steel. 
The colour - green is grille in, and so serene 
Much meant for a love seal 
Imagined the middle of the sea. 
It is a playground not only for cheetahs 
But a world called ataraxy. 
Weeds , leaves of creepings and trees 
All tell no tail than peace, 
Connoting a coherent whole 
For all diverse hopes. 
Yet, festering is bogging her down 
By the human travailing clowns 
Plundering her hedonic thrill 
To an aging awkly quilt ;
Immaterialised in her ethos 
Of peaceful dialog, 
To the scorching dessert home
Soon to be lost by all.