the red bricks destroy the green woods
leave them alone
do not interfere
if you do
do not ask why it despises us

What is to say beyond the poplars,
But the dry mouth of her death,
Like the hoarded provision of an echo,
Somewhere far off in my being,
Where darkening moves up the stone step,
Each footprint like her powdered breath,
Her shuddering voice channeled through my throat,
Shattered like frozen buds blown to the faceless snow.

I want to lay down
In a bed of flowers
Walk into the woods
Dig into the earth, barefoot
I want to lay down
And see the trees
Reaching out their arms
Sheltering me
Let my body still
Blossoms tickling my cheeks

walking in a dark forest
Leaves crunch beneath my boots
the only sounds come from snapped twigs and fidgeting bodies
Along the tree line are staring eyes
People shifting occaisionly, not speaking
Just staring
They don’t break eye contact
Not once
I keep walking, holding myself tightly
Walking towards a light, but every step I take,
the more the staring gets to me
I try to ignore but then the whispering starts
And suddenly I’m getting chills
their eyes are cutting into me
Now I’m running
Crunching leaf sounds are behind me
As the whispering becomes defeaning
Covering, covering my ears
tears mix with grime
Breathing heavy
sprinting away from the whispers
Finding myself on smooth pavement
Heart beating rapidly but the whispers have stopped
Collapse onto the ground
in a pile of tears
But the stares are still there
just at the edge of the woods
Watching, emotionless.

I walk another broken path, across a collection of burning fragments of orange and brick red, towering above my seemingly insignificant head down a pathway of forgotten futures to foretell.

Each tender leaf just falls. A crisp, whispering wind numbs my face, which would be all too great if it doesn't start to turn to a skeleton freeze and harden to a crystal clear.

Turn back time-- to a more pleasant day.
A day with no wailing cyclones of color circling around me,
No almost-black bark barred trees stretching its arms above my head,
No crunching sweet beneath my feet,
No musty fog to lose myself and forget,
No thundering storm cloud lingering not too far behind to finally come down upon me and sneer as I soak,
No looming forest to navigate through this seemingly endless broken path as I keep moving on.

But it can't be done. There's no going back.

I come across a clearing within and lay my head on the damp, wood soaked, earth-scented soil and look up. Look up into the ever-gray eyes of the sky, hiding its greatest secret--the infinite cosmos of possibly.

Oh, what worlds could there be?

Worlds of echoing majesty and light. Worlds that could cut the mold of ordinary life. Worlds where one doesn't need to navigate on their broken paths but where you can fly high above all else till they're insignificant to your gleaming sky-dried eyes.

But no.

In the forest is where I am. Does that really matter though? This is my fantastical world, here, so I should make the best of it.

I must go on. I step up again and continue in the journey. My journey. I walk to the sound of a trickling, icy, stream. I step over knotted root to knotted root. I almost glide on a mirage of gold and crimson.

As twilight whispers into the wind, I take a look around this endless wood of possibility and march forward on my broken path.

Every time I think of you
I imagine myself transported
to this notion we had of ourselves
together in the woods,
but somehow alone,
and I'd kiss your lips every morning
but it'd be bittersweet,
and I loved bitter so much at the time
that I'd melt anyway
and somehow in the woods,
in this tiny cabin,
you'd be able to hide from all your sins
and maybe you could protect me
from the bears
from the harsh weather
and from you.

When they couldn’t tell where you were going, those woods were dark.
The moonlight didn’t make it to your neck, the winds
****** the wet from your eyes and carried it until it was stale.

There were no creatures in those woods, only the incomprehensible whispers
Of men who had been lost there before:
Men with wives and ancestors younger than they.

Those woods were safe, but they had too many questions to answer,
Too many questions to remember or know at all.

Your feet reached a tree trunk that didn’t fall there on its own,
Knees clenched, your stomach caved into your spine.
The moonlight reached your neck just long enough to whisper
The last sentence those woods would remember:

“Go, you aren’t needed here anymore.”

You never realized that moonlight has a taste,
Or that you can spin from it an invisibly thin thread,
That is used to weave paper for the Titans.

Stars hang from around your neck like marbles,
Like so many trophies and answers to the questions you never knew to ask.
The Inky Black rests on your shoulders breathing the deep sighs of the giants
And the Oldest Ones, the ones before us and them.

The skies have left room for you now.

Every seldom moment your daughter reminds you of something you once knew
But forgot to remember, not for lack of trying.
Her questions about the questions, and a memory of a tree trunk.

In the distance, a softly whispered murmur escapes from the confusion,
And the lights around you sputter.
But there will never be, nor has there ever been
A star that remembers when those woods were dark.