/lit/ - Literature

Climb to the valley,
Oak and low-hanging fog.
Thirst for silence, gasping,
To where dead birds won’t follow

Skin stained blood-orange through
Shining mornings and heaving wind,
Cool stone under bare feet.

Mist of forests, hide me here;
Cold breath of the mountain,
Grant me purpose.

Pinewood forests, low in the haze,
Drowned in sap, sweet in the breeze.
With the ivied bark in stillness, stopping.
Deep emotion, find me here.