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Stories
Saturday, July 10, 2010
7:30 PM
The Woods
Far off into the woods there lies
a dog.
Wandering, walking, feeling the cold,
Cold grass. Withered, brown-
dead.
Leaves fall all around, drifting slowly
Towards the ground just like rain in
Slow motion.
Time stops not, not for him. It sweeps
Through like the cold, cold wind that
cuts right through.
Dog cannot run; his paw blistered,
broken, hurt.
He walks alone deep in the green, the
Sun setting behind him granting
It's red rays not much longer.
He knows no rest, no respite
no end.
His Master is not there, he knows
Not if he's searching. Certainly
There is no one there, here,
anywhere.
The tall trees everywhere, fallen leaves
Litter the ground. It goes on for miles
and miles.
No where to hide.
He walks on the cold, cold grass,
Each painful step in the cold, cold
wind.
