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It is late on a warm spring night,
the scenery surrounding, what a sight!
I am walking along the dry rock path,
making sure not to step on the young, green grass.
With the moon as my guide, I make my way home,
but on this journey I am alone.
It's not because I lack the sociality,
but rather for the sake of my mentality.
So as I traverse through open fields,
who's grasses rustle 'gainst my heels,
and into the forest who's stillness I steal,
I hear the noise, to which, I yield.
The noise is charging at a rapid pace.
I turn my head to protect my face.
The noise brushes past in whispery tones,
and for a brief moment, again, I am alone.
A blast! The noise comes rushing in!
The trees do quiver and no longer seem stark.
The clouds rush past with no care for the moon.
Until eventually, when covered by thickened clouds,
all becomes dark.
The roaring persists, as I leap and bound,
running, running, from the overwhelming sound.
I see a break in the seemingly submissive forest's end,
and from the flying debris, I defend.
I jump one last jump over a defeated oak tree,
push through the brush and scrape my knee.
I tumble out of the deep, dark wood, and into the barley sea,
brush off my shirt and turn around to realize that I am free...
But in my joviality I realize the roaring has died.
Instead, with the barley reaching my waist, it has dulled to a mere sigh.
I take my time crossing the sea, as the moon has revealed its face.
The night no longer seems so shaken, so neither will my pace.
Within an hour I spot the light of a place that I call home.
I look back at the forest, then at the field, and reveled on where my steps had combed.
Once on the stoop I open the door, now weary from my journey,
climb up the stairs and into bed, and get the oil lamp burning.
Once at peace and nestled in, with my eyes facing the glass in pane,
the lamp, now tired, is shrinking fast into one modest flame.
Who knew that something could arose fear and comfort with kinetics...
That something could be so strong and pathetic...
And evoke,within me, a feeling, aesthetic.
... ... ...
I know that I shall never forget it.