IN THE FOREST of malachite and tiger eye beauty, the ghost's whispers soar above the silver waves of the fog.
"O brother let's go down
Let's go down, come on down
Come on brother, let's go down
Down in the river to pray."
The sojourner entwined in its majesty searches to find its everlasting source, but it comes as much from the north as the south, from the west as the east. Half blind as the fog renders him, he follows its serene streams above the whisps of the forest's soul.
"O sinner, let's go down
Let's go down, come on down
O sinner, let's go down
Down in the river to pray."
But Loki Odinson does not find it. He twists a heavy tungsten ring on his finger.
The raw, sirenic alto carries over all the croaking frogs, pacific winds, chirping crickets, smooth streams, and quiescent birds of the forest until none other exist.
Published in full length at home: allerdale. wordpress. com.
Thanks to RavenReux for being my second pair of eyes throughout.