Invite the forest for a dance, oh, most vile creature. Scorch the ground with your black acid, turn living into death. Inorganic, bitter soil lay in your wake, as you, unstoppable, are a moving helix, leaving no ground untouched, no body unseen and not predated. See all other as other, you, against the world, an innate opposition whose humor is to always mirror the inverse. The inverse, but always worse, no sliver of good or true, or neutral for the matter. Satiate that need, the tendency to torture.

Dance with this boulder - stoic and intentionless who is too, kin of insects and smaller pests, sear its skin, rake its mane, do as you please. Play your game, and the tolerance of matter, because you are weaker than the inevitable. The still that you stir up, it revolves and finds its place once again.

You are merely motion.

The smell of deep and old darkness fills the air. It crackles and grinds, surfaces and dives back into the dark, the deep gold sheen of the bark spirals. This friction births warmth, and from that warmth grow antlers. From that warmth grow the deer.

A white, sharp shard cuts into the cream velvet, and as it touches the skin, dissolves. Then come more. It contracts the veins. The ground swallows the white, that's how it transforms itself rigid, cold: The cradle of the fawn. Everyone is born alone.

From the parting eyelids peek out thawed eyes. In the distance, trails of light prance in the dark with hushed noise. Aromatic scents fill the lungs. And silver threads, from which usually stars hang, lift the legs up to raise the tender body. Another inhale and the muscles bloom. Pebble hooves descend to the ground. The legs already know what to do - animated by the spark it was born of, it springs towards the other crown-bearers. The body stretches at the apex of the jump, warm velvet skin stretching across the bone and muscles.
The cold air encases the form. It will remember this shape, among all the others that came before.

The forest feels like warm wood again.
Yellow that drifts through thick canopies unseen, green that fills the entire sky, of gods' reach. The trees that play like instruments, wind and string fusing together in an eternal polyphonic noise. You can taste it in your mouth, the honey of wooden aroma and walnuts, hidden in the past and found in the present, stored cold beneath the aged roots of the oak tree.

It quiets and comes back around. The crackling sounds of the gods' musician, his strings that move the human faced deer in crooked ways, crooked as the bark of their trees, crooked as their branches and as the bend of their stream. He plays the warm deep melodies that lend color to the creatures observed from above.

Sunkissed greens and browns cradle like memories, memories beyond and before mortality.