The Troll's Toll

The Trolls Toll

Yes, it is true I have lived in those dark tunnels this year,

following you in the dark closeness,

funneling down into the understory of society,

digging under buildings, being brought under water and then

up again for a gulp of air.

This year I came to you

stripped more than in years before;

I still have faith (my breasts as ponderous as a war chest)

My thoughts today tale the color of vengeance

as I curse my drowsy mind, reluctant fingers.

Yet some may liken it to walking down a twisted hall of fun-house mirrors;

images of your core reflected in distorted obtuse,

maybe your eyes are too long,

(sometimes our waists are folded in, stretched like taffy).

Ogre’s path, that you saunter down,

left overly bright, unnaturally sanitized by some

cromwellian petard; (they will lead you astray),

you expect to end somewhere else, anywhere else.

I can tell you the truth - though

it is often like searching for a particular tree

in a foggy forest of old-growth,

underbrush sneaking out, snacking on you;

it is the wind, that violently knocks

the top of trees against each other

the same that runs through indolent tunnels shrieking loudly

(our children will ask what trees were).

the same runs through indolent tunnels shrieking loudly.

the top of trees against each other;

it is the wind that violently knocks,

underbrush sneaking out, snacking on you

in a foggy forest of old-growth.

It is often like searching for a particular tree;

I can tell you the truth – though

you expect to end somewhere else, anywhere else.

Cromwellian petard (they will lead you astray);

left overly bright, unnaturally sanitized by some

ogre’s path, that you saunter down

sometimes our waists are folded in, stretched like taffy).

Maybe your eyes are too long:

images of your core reflected in distorted obtuse.

Yet some may liken it to walking down a twisted hall of fun-house mirrors

as I curse my drowsy mind. Reluctant fingers.

My thoughts today tale the color of vengeance;

I still have faith (my breasts as ponderous as a war chest)

stripped more than in years before.

This year I came to you

up again for a gulp of air.

Digging under buildings, being brought under water and then

funneling down into the understory of society.

Following you in the dark closeness.

Yes, it is true - I have lived in those dark tunnels this year.

Ariel

Jan 16, 2012

a mirror poem.



Stripped Mountain by CC Willow 2012