The road wound around,
in a dense, verdant jungle.
Paths diverged,
Stopped, and continued.
Leafy green surrounded the clearing,
A bird’s song cut through the air.
Branches snapped,
Untouched dirt was packed.
A little insect,
Its legs thinner than hair,
Its mouth stronger than steel,
Its sinister capabilities unknown.
It drank from his life,
His force.
He scratched it.
The temptation went away.
He continued on his path,
Stopping at new locations,
Climbing tall trees,
Pausing to take it all in.
It itched him again.
He clawed at it.
A sweet pleasure passed through him.
He itched it again.
The vivacious redwoods,
Soft moss, so soft, so nice,
Revitalizing air,
Passed over his face.
He kept scratching.
And scratching,
And scratching again.
The pleasure kept on coming
He kept walking through the paths,
Each one winding together.
It kept itching,
He kept scratching.
Scratching as he went,
To see the intimidating trees.
He saw the moss with insects all throughout,
Not seeing how soft it was.
He kept scraping,
His raw and beaten skin,
Until he could no more.
And it cried its ugly tears.
The irritating path,
Each walk no longer held its beauty.
He saw nothing,
But his sorrow and despair.
The harrowing leaves,
The surprising bird noise,
The foolish animals,
He hated all of it.
Lamented,
He did,
But he kept itching.
And scratching,
And striking.
And irritating.
It cried until it finally stopped,
And he fell.