XII

A Dream of Nothing

 

Fensham’s dreams had never seemed bad.

They reached for the skies as always they had.

Yet here in the forest, the trees had ambition,

and these dreams of nature had no recognition

of this little man who thought to be king.

Here in the forest, where nature could sing

for eternity and more without ever being heard,

men lived and died without ever a word.

 

And he could feel the magic; he could feel a pulse.

He felt as if an evil thought would make him convulse.

And so he took deep breaths to clear his mind,

for thinking here was of the breathing kind.

 

On and on, he walked, on and on some more,

deeper into the tree-covered dark.

The temperature dropped ‘til he shivered to the core

and he began to envy the forest its bark.

 

How long he walked, he never could know,

as he dragged at the reins of his mare in tow.

As reluctant as he, she shared his fearing

and shared his relief upon spying a clearing.

For up ahead there seemed to be light,

and man and horse picked up their pace.

They ‘merged from the trees and took in the sight

of a vast and empty and desolate place.

 

Nothing was here, nothing but horizon;

an end to a world that was not worth realizing.

It came to him then that he heard not a sound,

and nothing seemed alive for miles around.

 

He wondered then if this were all a game,

for when he looked back...

he saw much the same.

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