©2021 Michael Raven
i walk my own path through the woods with wights clinging to my side -- they remain silent watchful, waiting for the dim one to learn how to speak their tongue phantom passing touches of strangers give slight warmth, but never ever enough & the mists always return to chilling flesh, bone, heart they hop: branch to branch to ground to stump to rot sometimes laughing at the fool following sometimes chiding the child who is following sometimes silently guiding the man wandering down the narrow wooded path -- memory escaping -- thought deepening while the trees backfill the footprinted loam behind
“Phantom passing touches”…. I really like this piece.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you
LikeLiked by 1 person