A Walk in Whistler’s Woods
I can feel the fog on my tongue
Eyes watching me from distorted trees The feet crippling in mud-sips Cutting glassy gravel.
I can breathe in phantom’s dances
While the unknown is whistling in the woods.
The chill bites my skin.
Feeling as thin as death allows. My prayers are endless, as the path – Continues to squeeze me in.
Closer to the lake
My reflection float
Without my body, just flowing clothing. Clogged in ripples.
Whistles like radar
Lead to paper cups of wine
Sitting still for the wind
A waterfall of poisons for me to drown in.
The whistler gorges in spirits
And leaves the woods bare, the bells of rapture toll.
In the mute silence
The art of Earth, are crumbled sticks
Whistler’s freedom revoked.
photo by John Silliman (unsplash)