A woman, in the forrest, of loves journey.
Her bare feet, become calloused, in a needled fury.
He must become aware of her, a storm darkens the sky in a hurry.
She, knows the path, he wanders away, she, begins to worry.
She calls for him, he falls, like a fallen tree, his rotten roots drip, wet brown ground.
She cries, “Don’t you still love me?” His remains, lost in the forrest, love is unfound.
Love dies, two souls torn apart, a splinter’ed wooden cracking sound.
His tears, streak his muddy face, he calls for her, hoping, she is still around.
Zachary W Gilbert, Author 