alone in the woods.

of Annie Spratt

I try to find the lost poet in the woods, to talk to him about the words I hide. The elves tell me whenever I step my feet on the mud path that I can only find the poet if my heart is filled with glory of loss. Yesterday, I dosed the fire we had with the lake water. Today, I think it is enough to find the poet. But after waiting for thousands of dusk, I begin to think the poet is a myth. I am the reader who trusts the craft designed to fool its audience. As I walk back to the open road, tonight the adventure ends, I hear a whisper somewhere in the thick green trees, like a forgotten dove finally coming home. I follow the soft voice until I find the water that runs. It flows endlessly without any remorse. As I look below, I see the poet–clear in its broken image. His sharp features of melancholy engulf me with tremendous light. I am somewhat settled. I dip my head in the water to talk to him, to tell him about all the words I hide. I am free from all the worries. I find sanctuary in his own words and thoughts after a sorrowful shade of conversation. I raise my head and look again at the marvelous beauty of the poet in the water. With grace and prowess, I sink my lips into his and fall.


Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.


let me hold your words before you leave;

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