Babe, in the woods

Wandering inside a rocky labyrinth
Whispering and asking myself for a complete and grand theory
A big punctuated unanswerable kind of question.
I’m answered by a softer voice in my head
I unheard it for the life of me I couldn’t tell you what it said.

The sounds of trees speaking to me
Voices melting together, humming a bee swarm choir.
All the creatures singing to my delicate sensibilities,
Breaking the crystal with those high pitched cries at
The octave of all deceptions.
Blindly sliding through an unshaped wood
Where all roads disappear
Maps drawn in night’s ink
On black cartography paper.
Long lines of highways and dashes of dirt roads,
Big blue bodies of water and brown paper mountains, all
Legendary and meaningless without any keys, locked
Inside the stomach of the night.

Between the packed rows of forestry teeth,
The pointed firs choked while biting me into pieces.
Swallowing me whole down
The throat of the past.
Disgusted by my taste
They spit me out, coughing from my flavor.
I fell outside the rows
Imagining a creation of myself from small
Fragments of past participles
Shards of who I once wanted to see
Sharply ahead of me.
In the onyx ink I know there’s a fire
Blazing outside the warm front door.
Red flares snap breaking sharp icicles
From yesterday’s storm, cold and incomplete.
Waiting for my mind to name it something simple, biblical perhaps
Like any new born.

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