The Forest~ a Poem

The forest is a lonely heart
That prowls by night outside my window
And wanders in its troubled sleep
(whispering, and dreaming)
Through folds and shadows of the earth.
Its breathless dreams are prayers,
Lofted to the stars
In the bowed and trembling vessels
Of its leaves.

If I should creep between its shadows
(silent, like a curious muse)
What sacred secrets
Would its hidden shrines divulge?
Is it a heart that weeps in secret,
As does mine?

The forest is a raging heart
Whose blackened branches shake
Like ancient bones
Outside my window.
A temple, not for dreams, but violence.
Two angels house within its shadows,
And tonight, the Fury wins.
I watch the temple burn.

Fiery wings take flight,
Borne to the heavens in boiling smoke
That rises like a choking incense
In dark repentance of the gentle prayers
Formerly offered.
These violent elegies
(heralds, all, of spiteful ruin)
Scatter themselves in burning ridicule,
And desecrate the withering leaves
As drunkards desecrate a shrine
And gobble themselves into nothing.

The forest is a grieving heart,
Whose scorched bones quaver in a grave’s refrain
Outside my window.
The skeletons of trees are arms,
Despairing
Lifted to a sky whose clouded eyes are blind
In hopeless prayer.
The Fury’s temple has collapsed,
And in its place
The gentler muses wander through the ruins
Weeping in low cadence with the wind
For things that were.

The forest is a broken heart;
The battleground of two primeval gods
Who struggle;
One for power
One for peace,
And find no reconciling.

If these two muses truly dwell alone,
All powerful,
And the forest is a temple for no other
Kinder hand,
I wonder how it is
That as I walk between the broken trees
(Listening, as before, for vanished dreams)
The ashes at my feet are full of flowers?

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