To each Man

I follow my horse, into the forest.
Bleeding; wet from my own blood.
Feet drape like millstones; heavier and heavier;
a beating pain in the thigh.
A coursing through my body
The cloth I cover sets like plaster
around my legs, where the blood has dried.

I fall, but get up again.
Staggering, limping, stumbling, falling.
My hunt ends, in the wet moss
by the the lone bank of the moon lake.

Remains there, in the wet moss, alone and dying.
I cannot get up.
The moon is reflects upon in the disturbed lake surface.
The moon blinks at me.

The light intensifies.
Chide for past transgressions,
A regression,
The moon goddess comes to me.

I am not cold anymore.

I test my destiny again and again?
Must I forget the pain when the wound heals?
I get used to a ruined body
Why must I forget whence I fell the last time?
Why must I forget?
The need to forget
Must I feel the old pain?

I am not cold anymore.
For warmed by the final, a forest moonlight.

Vegard M. Vindheim ©2012

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