Sunday, March 4, 2018

The Last Stage of Primeval

The woods returned without a sound.
Auden’s woods, Frost’s woods, Birnam woods,
Blacked my windows, crowded around.

I tried to protest. You aren’t real.
Real trees get cut down, are useful,
Grow slowly, clear the air. They heal

The troubled mind. They provide shade.
We’re low on woods, if anything.
We’ve made a wasteland out of glades.

But you. You’re menacing. You creep
Up on us. You’re seeking revenge.
You trouble poets in our sleep,

Seduce simpletons and sweet girls
To enter endless shadows
Of wolves and witches. You’re a world

Unto yourselves, one that clearly
Can’t exist. Although, I admit,
I can’t stop dreaming, and dearly

Wish you did. I wouldn’t resist.

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