I walked Frost's road, diverged in
yellow wood;
The one less traveled by, with
difference made.
Along that road I found the beeches
hence.
The beeches killed the road and rose
and fell:
Ominous splendor of Earthly tendrils;
Like the the fingers of some forgotten
god
Reaching for where he may again find
peace.
The ground is glistening with Fall's
fallen,
Angel's slain in their god's war
for the sky.
I could not help but feel a pious
might.
In this place, I was unwelcome,
foreign.
I did not belong in this holy place,
Nor did I wish to leave, though I knew
how.
A heard a bluebird and felt a slight
breeze,
One that felt like cold steel and
smelled of grapes.
But as I looked about, I saw no shore.
No beaches of golden sand or tide
pools.
I saw a harsh land of harsh men empty.
I saw those grasping digits, reaching
up.
I felt his struggle, his endless
sadness.
He wished to be home and I understood.
I wished to help this sad, grasping
beast.
I was alone, so I needed a hand.
I turned and felt the emptiness ahead,
Because I saw no road. I was alone.
It was just me and the god in the dark.
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