Old Bones

I love to write, it’s how I feel I best connect with everything that’s happening around me. Some people can paint, some people can draw, some people can do all these things exceptionally well. I don’t know if I’m a good writer, but I enjoy it. So every now and again, I’ll add musings, things I write down in the whim of the moment or old scratchings from the backs of some of my dozens of notebooks.

Amongst the twigs and the raw of the earth, I found my home. I made my nest from those old bones and the milk teeth buried in the dirt, twisted those gnarled roots into a bed for me to rest. I felt safe in this haven. Under ancient gaze I folded into mushroom and rock, grew into the oak and the birch, pushing my fingers up into the sky.

I belong in this crumbling kingdom and it has ingrained in my skin. Seeds and leaves and myth and lore have combed themselves into my hair, woven a mane and named me King of this place. The crown I wear was given to me by the fallen, beaten by wind and by time. Beast and bird come to me for council and with a broken branch in hand I give them the law of these lands.

And when the sun sets, her fiery trestles caught in the grey fingers over another yellow lit dusk, I stamp my boots and make my subjects scatter.

The time for play is done. I must return to brick and to mortar in time for tea, otherwise they’ll wonder where I am.

But this ship has not yet sailed and I’ll return to the embrace of these woods, pick my way through the wilderness and bring that world into my childish arms, hold it close. Close enough that I push into my heart so that it can never be forgotten.

Like my blood before, I am of the wilderkin. The woodland calls, and I know every time, I shall answer and be at home once again, lost among the trees.

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