Field
I see an untended book
Left amid a white-speckled field of emerald.
Pages fluttering between stories
Of knights and queens,
And tales of fairy magic;
The wind reads gently
Under the eye of purity,
Turning back and forth to relive the preserved moments.
Words that have captured such allure deserve to be implanted and nestled between the folds of a mind.
I appear in the field
Carrying each aching foot towards the book:
A resting spot.
As the soles of my bare feet bleed,
Mixing with the dirt and grass,
I hear the wind moving past my ears,
And the calling of the book becomes stronger.
Finally,
As I have tiredly reached my destination,
I realize that the book is on its final page:
The end.
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