Literature
He of Many Faces
Layered tendrils Of thick, soupy mist Drift aimlessly Before a backdrop Of greenish grey Ebony skies, Gentle rolls Of a mountain range And the spiky edged Blackened voids Of old chestnut trees. Lemon light glows In the lonely cabin Of the valley, All of it owned By Lady Wayfarer— The dreamer Who escaped, Snugly sat inside, On her reading nook By a bay window. A mug of tea Sits beside her, Some candles Round out Homely ambience And the contrast Of owl's hoots And toasty quilt About her person Makes her shiver In contentment. It's as good a life As she's ever known. She heads outside To enjoy the dusk, Light and shadow Spilling out ahead of her. She breathes in The lay of the land And back out. Bobbing lantern light Appears on a rise In the distance, Followed by a hat, And the rest of he Whom Lady Wayfarer Had ardently hoped Would never again Torment her. She stands frozen, Envisioning herself Slamming the door, Stomping the candles And hollering, "Blame him, Not me!", Before
