I do not care for this place of endless shadow.
The moss creeps me out.
The lichens don’t like much.
The trees will surrender no secrets, no, not even if you crawl
In the dank spaces below their roots, whispering a plaintive melody.
It doesn’t matter.
They WILL tell you that, as the match continues.
Two falls out of three? The blisters build in tiny rows.
Concession looms in this dark dale of the heart.
Burrowing ever deeper in the soft loam,
The absence of light is a welcome sight.
copyright r.b.franklin 25/02/06