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ANH Sep 26
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.
This is old homework from 2-3 years ago. I figured why not share it.
CautiousRain Sep 26
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.
my draft folder is so clogged rn
also this is a sad boi hour poem but uhhh good morning anyway
Anna Sep 21
Men, oh the men
They burnt my version of whispering woods
Now all I can see is grey
And all I can smell is the smoke
I have ashes over my cactuses
My uncle is awake
And he is crying
Because he knows it won't go back
To how it was even if it grows again
And I'm crying
Because I know it's true.
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.
There are moments in life when you realize you haven't been true to your dreams. Those moments can be like waking up in a cold sweat, but they can also be beautiful in a "Just the beginning" sort of way. This poem contains one of those moments (a "tree trunk") and everything that comes with it.
Abby M Sep 9
A spiral of light, like music to my eyes
I spun out into the golden grass
The stars shining brightly above me
Only seconds ago the vortex that seemed to knock me down
I heard a laugh, but no one was there
Maybe it was the stars
The moon was too kind to laugh
My silver feet began to work again
Daring the stars to tip me twice
The dampened earth beneath my twirling soles
A cushion when the dare was done
I laid there then, but
Only long enough to find Pegasus
Until I heard the muffled steps and swishing grass
As others wandered from the trees
Their candles sad mirrors
Of the vortex in the sky
One by one they challenged the stars
That tucked them all in to a bed of laughter and golden grass
I watched as they disappeared beneath the waving fronds
Until I could feel the hands of the stars readying the finale
Pulling me into a spiral of sweat and lazy zephyrs
They too knew that this was the last dance
But still I whispered up to their shining choir
Daring them to stop time.
Their hands were on their pocket watches
Pulling out the gears
A wish so close to granting you could hear the crickets pause
Yet soon they stirred
The spiral pushed, but laughter pushed it back
No longer harmonizing to their melodic lights
I fell again
This time over a root
My silver feet tarnished to grey
And lost their shine walking back through the woods
Chris Saitta Aug 31
A pine forest is the hand,
The soul of the palm fans out in fingers
Like the clayey striations of the sun.
The forest has no sound but the bonebreast
Wandering round of a similar hand,
All but shut now except for the unspoiled nest
Of browning needles and the ancient realmless mound of love.
William Troup Aug 28
Briskly by the light of the fire,
   we did talk for many an hour.
Embers still glow in aged desires;
   from burning souls ... the growing flowers!

Swiftly by the light of the power,
   we did walk of many a morrow!
What is left within all this sorrow?
   from the bruising goals ... these sleeping eyes!

   Least we forget the falling arrows ...
      cast the dream away upon the skies!
Po Aug 25
It’s an absence
Of our entire essence;

Lost I have been among these woods;
My bare feet drum a path of your presence;

Leaves sitting among the branches
Their colorful array of moods.

Murmur a wind from a depth
I’ve once glimpsed behind these trees

For a buried world’s shoulders
Awaken an embrace for my soul;

It’s always been here, hasn’t it?
Always sneeking behind,
Waiting for the day,
I dare.. to turn around.

For in the end, there’s rebirth.
Thank you for reading.
Why does heaven feel closer
in the woods?
I ask that, as if I do not know the answer.
Perhaps I simply want to tell myself why.
The sky is closer up here in this tree,
and the forest is where
I pour myself out, always hoping
always asking
to be filled back up—
but not with what I had before. Never
what I had before.
God, fill me with a need for you,
one I cannot shake from my chest
like yesterday’s idols,
and keep me clinging.
Tighten my grip.
Love me enough to hold me close,
even with all of yesterday’s scars.
Yes, they tell how far I wandered, but today is today—
and today I am clinging
today I am gripping
today I am close.
Because in these woods, heaven is mine.
I can carry this forest with me,
its bird-song wind filling my lungs
and exhaling everything I once was.
In these woods, today is mine.
Today, I can plant a flower on the page and in my soul,
and the forest that held my secrets
has become my safe haven.
I need not ask why
heaven feels closer in these woods.
God is here.
No, scratch that—
my God is here.
(and isn't that astounding.)
pa3que Aug 8
Marie, took some fresh baked goods,
set her sail through blood-curdling  woods,
in search of a one who hearts can alter.
her heart broke a man,
and so with sedan,
she seeked the one who’d scrap her falter.

to prevail over cold,
she took some gold,
to pay the one who hearts can alter.
she traveled sad,
but reached a nomad,
who claimed “i’m the one who hearts can alter.”

he was a fraud,
very sharp-clawed,
he stole her gold and then he paltered.
took his leave,
with a thieve,
after saying “Marie, your heart is altered.”

“Oh, Marie naive,
do you still grieve?”
the nomad was actually a salter,
see in this ground,
there’s not around,
a single soul that hearts can alter.
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