The Shadowed Stag

At the forest’s edge he stands—

a stag antlered with flame,

shadows clothed around his body

like armor,

like smoke.

No breath stirs in the trees.

No bird dares to call.

Even the river waits,

its silver tongue stilled.

I move to draw the string,

but the bow turns to bone in my hand,

and the arrow to ash.

The forest has chosen:

he is not mine to claim.

The stag turns,

and the world bends with him—

the path unravels into mist,

the roots withdraw into earth,

the sky folds shut.

Only his gaze remains,

piercing, impossible,

a mark upon my soul.

When I lunge forward,

the clearing collapses.

I am left among trees

that whisper of fire and shadow,

their trunks still trembling

from the thunder of his hooves.