To Grow Antlers

To grow antlers and disappear

Photo by Hungrybison

into a forest of wild azaleas.

To live like the wild.

A series of skirmishes, battles and truces.

A rift between he and the world,

often solved in the spilling of blood.

Peace in the forest,

the slayer of deer,

he was “wired” differently.

A celebrated bomb thrower,

full of magnetism,

he was born angry.

A scourge among men,

shrouded in cigarette smoke,

he was incapable of avoiding trouble.

He couldn’t find the American Dream,

so he left,

left for the forest.


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Filed under American West, Blood, creative writing, lonliness, micro stories, original photography, original writing, poem, poems, writing

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