Viewed from outside, the forest appears to have been gobbled up,
erased by a gigantic sponge of mist.
Only the tips of a few cedars pierce through the miasma.
No, they aren't piercing through the veil; more so, they are disconnected
from the rest of their towering bodies -
green, sharp cones floating above the lumbering, pulsating cloud.
But once within the forest, having stepped through the perimeter of trees,
visibility opens up a little, as wispy tentacles retract into the canopy above,
as if in retreat from an approaching intruder.
I do not know precisely what I am looking for,
simply following a strong instinct
as to the whereabouts of what I desire to find.
How is it possible to desire something I do not know?
Oh, but how I so desire to find it....
Fiddleheads uncurl, silent players in an orchestra,
giving a visual impression of the sounds vibrating
beneath their spiralled stalks.
A strange hour for crickets to be tuning their Viennese strings.
Over to my left, sits Voltaire with a crooked grin.
But upon closer inspection, it is only a rotting stump.
Voltaire, you sly, sly genius. Always so sharp and forthright.
How you must have wormed your way into Luther's head,
as the two of you hid in Frederick's fortress castle.
Yes, you were always so keen and brilliant,
but disconnected from your heart. Were you not?
I push deeper into the forest, scaring off a mole
who had a momentary lapse of courage within the mist.
The curdling vapours recede even more,
clearing up my lines of sight.
There! Is that what I am searching for!?
Naye, it is but a smooth, polished stone set amongst a crowd
of dangerous looking rocks, poking out of thick, wet moss -
dangerous rocks with slippery, jagged edges,
resembling the dagger of Brutus.
23 stabs in Caesar's back, on that cruel midnight hour.
23 chromosomes added from each half,
giving birth to a story of deception and betrayal.
And of a captain going down with his sinking ship.
Pondering over these spectres, suddenly jogs my thoughts -
thoughts no longer connected to a physical body.
My hands resemble the fog--thick as illusions,
but also transparent, depending on the vantage point.
I have found what I came looking for,
confirmed my own mortal death,
as I now appear to be existing within the memories of the living.
I did not find the forest after all,
instead, Death found me.
The true reason for having arrived here,
is to earn a degree in phantasmology.
February 16th, 2012