The Legend Of The Wood

The Legend Of The Wood

Published on Excavating the Underground

We all have our stories to tell.

The weak and the strong, the rich

And the poor, the old and the young.

Which story do you have to tell, and

From which point-of-view do you wish to person?

Losing water from the beauty of river bank

The One appears in a world

Of blindness traversed by feeling

The leaves on the corn plants and following

The rows, then stumbling through the bean plants,

And wading through the wheat.

The shore beats me to the Salty River

And spills its angled plots of produce

Into the muck of eoned knowledge.

I race like a cloud to see everything

And forget that I am only dissipating.

She waits under the sheet of night,

Upon the bank of the river,

Lying among the reeds,

Naked, wet with sweat, asleep,

Fingernails combing her pubes,

My name upon her lips, the tip

Of her tongue tapping the ‘t’

After the serpent hiss of ‘s’,

The shudder releasing her dream.

Her name is Legend of the Wood

The Lady of the Violets;

Her name, soon to be forgotten.

By Stephen Page

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