The Wood

I consistently identified comfort and company only

with Solitude

amongst the ashen and crimson stone

walls of my home.

 

Years I spent,

a myriad of mornings marveling

at the world through my window.

A chromatic kaleidoscope

of psychedelic sensations

as I watched

the sun ascend atop the Wood,

their chartreuse leaves

waving and whistling within the wind, wishing

me good day like a collection

of distant companions

and warm nostalgic memories.

 

Yet in time,

the great Wood gradually grew

to be less of verdurous epidermis

and bronze bark

and more of aspiration and temptation

before becoming stale,

iron,

and restricting at last.

 

Alas, I gazed longingly

through my window once more,

and I simply was not satisfied

as I recognized

the roots, trunks, branches, leaves,

and stone

just as they were:

a once-comfortable cage.

I realized

I knew not what lies

past my old friends,

now toxic and indigent

as if my home never laid within them

but theirs within me.

 

Thus, it was only when I marveled at

the ashen and crimson stone

through the branches that

I concluded:

 

Beyond

the Wood, I truly belonged.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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