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.
WORD COUNT: 242
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