A table sits
Alone
In a clearing in the woods
At night.

Its marble
Corners
Have twisted
And turned
Into brilliant
White
Spires.

Leaves
Sit scattered
And aloof
Not for lack of care,
But for lack of knowledge.

They fell
From branches
Of trees
Which were sitting sadly
In the wind.

And off they went,
Floating gently
Down,
One by one,
In a nonsensical
Haze.

They landed
With barely
Even a small
Tap.

Dirt is smudged,
Making slightly brown
Its otherwise milky white
Surface
From years of disuse.

The dirt was taken
There against its will,
Another victim
Of the ever imposing
Western wind.

In the distance
There is a light,
A light
From the town
Which sits
Just outside the woods.

The town
Is quiet.
Everyone is inside,
Shut in.

The ultimate oppression
Sounds less like goosesteps
And more like silence.

The table
Sits like a weight
On light
Places.

It sinks
And sinks
Into the soil
As time
Passes.

Eventually,
All that is visible
Are the spires,
A malformation,
Protruding
From the ground.

They stand
Like four horsemen
Staring down
The Earth.

They stand,
Confident and assured.
Sometimes,
It even sounds like they're laughing.