• Walking on a desolate autumn's eve,
    the unforgiving chills basking in my disdain,
    I hold a coke bottle in my sleeve
    it's a memory of the existence, the world, I tend to bane.

    A fog, a tantalizing mist, covers my way
    on this mountain it is a widow for the heavens.
    She sulks and mourns the day,
    that never woke above the horizon, that never shone at Leven
    from where the winds whisked her away
    to Oakwood Mountain.

    Here on Oakwood Mountain the fences are stripped of wire
    and the leaves are as gold as the haunting of morn,
    nothing is contained, nothing seems dire,
    and yet all that's here feels forlorn.

    Nothing but a stranger
    am I, walking through suffocating woods,
    everyone turns away, seeing the danger
    I hold in my bag of rags, my bag of goods.

    I think of where I came from earlier before,
    a party where the lovers shared intimacies by a fire,
    I had not truly belonged there amongst lovers' embracing gore,
    but I only stayed to entertain my desire.

    But what makes the coyote hope
    that she would belong in a wolf's pack?
    Does she wait by their caves, on a unsteady slope
    waiting, yearning, for them to see her, to bark without flak?

    Such a sight wouldn't be uncommon to this place,
    for every creature here is unsettled in their lives,
    Even when the spider weaves her home of wispy lace,
    She longs to live in hives,
    with others, to see another face.

    O to be content with the circumstances given by the Maker
    the junctures arise too quickly
    and the fog thickens acre by acre,
    and yet I don't care if I make it home, whether I'm healthy or sickly,
    because I lost the peace I once could waken.

    I see on the horizon a red sea of night-clouds
    it is not the traces of morning nor the daylight
    but 'tis the lights of the city where my home mounds.
    There, if I get to taste the tongue-blistering sweet tea, or take a bite
    of Mother's soup, I could say I survived Oakwood Mountain's bounds
    that I survived my own perturbed self, my yearning blight.