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Lost in the Woods

It's usually theraputic --
beautiful bends and whorls,
pine, oak and sky.
I could walk it with
eyes closed, almost cut
my way safely to free
fires and light...almost.

Last time was a crime
against nature, unnatural.
Saturated with sweat,
football fields from the truck,
I would've bet on
the path back. But
I looked -- it was
strange, elfin, alien;
the sun was turned, askew;
new -- everything --
like it was laid out on Mars,
the moon (but trees were
still there). I stared...
looking for a familiar bend,
whorl (world gone wrong).
Where was the truck?
Where I? Why this loss,
like any tracker blood
had bled into the hungry
dirt. Why this squirt
of fear, trembling,
toasting my canteen to
green ghosts?
I did get back...somehow.
My truck looked
like King's X, sanctuary, home.

Sometimes when I'm alone,
quiet, staring into a safe
flame I sweat, cold,
telling myself I'm just
the same (but already
dead) wondering about
the bends and whorls
in my mind.

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