Proposal of the Nymph to the Woodsman

Your stare is more keen 

than the blade

in your hand,

has cut me down, 

struck true

against my structure,

felled against my nature.

You have not touched me,

yet I skid across the damp

earth, and my boughs tangle against 

old fallen leaves, half-decomposed.

I implore you, if you must

take my of flesh 

to make something,

let it be a book.

Let my pages be filled with 

ink detailing your life’s story,

hopes and dreams unfulfilled,

secrets you wouldn’t bear

to another soul.

Let me rest against

my sisters’ spines,

in a library of your designing,

a codex of enigma,

a leather-bound tome

that breathes upon opening.

May I live in a forest of words

unending, instead of this

silenced-hollowed grove.

A hundred years may pass

alone, and I am rooted in this

place, so far from my 

mother’s glen. 

Come, displace my memories,

and fill me with your own.


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