A Fork

A fork of steel and many directions lay at my feet

And begged to me, “Pick me up, pick me up!”

So I did, and carried its gentle, silver frame to a small restaurant,

Placing it with what I thought were its brethren, of

Other forks and spoons and knives and silverware.

But upon my fingers leaving it, leaving only faint fingerprints,

The fork begged to me, again, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me!”

So I wrapped it around my delicate hands once more,

And carried it according to its instructions,

To a forest in the mountains, where there was a silent waterfall,

A waterfall not of water, but of liquid gold and liquid dreams.

I turned to the fork and asked, “What is this place?”

The fork replied, “I don’t know, but we brought us here.”

To this, I looked around to the singing, dancing trees,

The blinking sun behind, and the wind, aching with the

Cries of a million shrieks of laughter and a billion broken hopes.

I sat down and placed the fork onto a patch of growing grass,

To which the grass immediately rose up from the ground,

And caressed the fork within its soft, friendly touch.

I talked to the fork as it talked to me, talking to itself,

Talking of black snow and stationary clouds.

Soon the clouds held still as the wind picked up speed,

And little dark particles began descending from the sky,

Melting into pools of anxiety as it made contact with the trees.

I stared in confusion and contentment at this scene, when

The fork then said to me, “You can leave me now.”

So I did, walking down a path that did not exist,

Illuminated by memories that had been washed away by nostalgia,

And many days later without sleep, I arrived upon a road.

The road had no signs and no directions, but laid upon its black surface,

An eternity of forks that shouted at me in bizarre languages,

And I turned nowhere and ran forever into the sun that never set.