Through the Woods

The weak stresses of gravity sour under her tongue. Her words to spoil there. Brown bits of fruit and skin. Left for strays and scavengers. Her feast taken. In hollowed out melon rinds. Scorched by flame. Split with blunt sticks. Her thirst quenched by salt water and disease. The arrow turns in all directions. The compass grows fat with places to become. More than thieves.

Less than victims.

Gravity is a thin veil separating gods from men. A clever mesh of deceptions. To perpetrate this futile quest. How long have I waited. For the world to end. How much longer will I wait yet?

The witch in her dressing gown. The wolf in his tuxedo. The empty basket that I carry still what they covet.

The river and the woods. Each listening. For footsteps. Breaking leaves. Travellers among the dead. Liars indebted to their thieves.

Searching. For any indication. That she could fall down. That all things considered. As weak as gravity is, she is weaker.