The forest path

He once walked the
forest’s path beneath
its saber arch, listening
to the march of crisp,

falling leaves in the
distance, electrified
by the banshee wails
of crickets keening

through the trees, lulled
into serenity by the
songbird’s reverie
Then from a voluptuous

horizon, came she;
variegating his dwelling
in silvery pendalogues,
poetical prisms, and

sombrous piquancy; wetting
his canopy into myriad
resplendent waterfalls,
accompanying his lullabies

with subdued percussive salt
Until her tempest fell; wild
violence unburdened by
loyalty, deafening howls

disencumbered by honour,
rending a lightning seared
wasteland of stochastic
devastation, clouded by jejune

jealousy and capricious char
His is a forest of memories,
smothered by oppressive
towering rampikes; skeletal

dreams piercing once
vibrant flora, longing
to caress the azure skies
beyond their handless

grasp, seen only when he
ventures paths within
Alone he waits in quietus,
a velleitous tree dying

in the barren wildwood; no
melodies to share his
company, no honour guard
to inhume his bones; his

roots trapped by the soil’s
filth, his marrow decayed
by the forest’s corruption

Vague

Hidden within his egoic forest, facing a barren laund, he struggles to recall the name of each wilted dream he sees through the rapidly forming mist

In his pocket, his left hand lets the last seeds of hope slip carelessly through deadened fingers, before ever having a chance to blossom; vague portents each of failures yet to flourish

By his side, his right hand hangs; a noose insouciantly strangling the posy of his most cherished memories; its thorns, poisoning the once fertile soil with each vermilion drop of unabashed sorrow

He wonders why his weakness wins, while he weeps his will away

Life has yet to make him stronger, so he waits for it to kill him