Overgrown fiction stories
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natashajust looking for some meaning
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This field was never meant to be a forest Trees never used to cram the air space;


This field was never meant to be a forest

Trees never used to cram the air space;

their roots never filled the ground and choked out wildflowers, and their gnarled arms never strove to steal the rain from thunderclouds

With them, the field's gentle fauna had grown taller and tangled, darker and wilder

And the grassy field began to wilt in the shadow of dry, restless spirits

This forest is hushed now,

The wild shouting voices of young trees long since matured.

Their voices are ancient now,

And the dark woodland sprites who voice them are nothing like the flitting meadow faeries who lived so brightly

Their eyes are full of quiet fury and their irises collect rings with each passing age

They calcify



The wood sprites stretch through the forest, reaching, reaching,

Trying to escape their own simmering anger before the forest catches flame

The wood sprites remember those sunshine days in the field,

Before it became a forest,

Before it was forgotten,


And lonely

The field and faeries the size of grass blades were content to be loved

But time is not loving

And the tiny faeries were too fragile

So they grew into wood sprites

As the grass grew into trees

Tree trunks are sturdier than flower stems,

When the wind whistles through the echoes of what never should have been

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