Each night I walk through the Cranberry Woods;
the red dripping down like slime through the trees.
I become lost, wondering if I should
find my way out. So I can escape me.
The scent is so sweet, the red inviting.
I pretend not to see the corpse of words.
Words not spoken and words not shared, hiding
within my head. I watch them fly as birds.
Away, up into the trees of chondrify
they go, before I have time to catch them.
I try to sail upon wings that fly,
but no amount of my strength can lift em’.
Aghast, they fly out of reach, out of sight –
out of mind. And I leave them to contrite.
EMILY DICKINSON 