The Stranger

Oft I had wandered through a path

Of weary, drift'd vines

And never had I been obstructed 

Within its dark confines

Yet one day came as I did ramble

In my private wood

In front of me, the shape of a 

Stranger before me stood

He uttered not a syllable

In darkened face I saw

Impassive as an aged tombstone

A wide and withered maw

As he stood there, to study me

Upon my constant walk

His gaze met mine, with old grey eyes

And did begin to talk

He howled as the ancient wind

Rips through the looming oak

An anguished, cry, I must admit

I trembled as he spoke

But words fell from that antique jaw

Impassioned as the sun

"Wander no more upon this path,

Do not the clock's hands shun!"

He spoke with rage, and bitterness

Regret I'm sure I heard

But thinking back, he did not speak 

A single English word

And gone at once, this tortured man

Upon his weary way

I stood stock still among the trees

For should I go or stay?

I sat a moment in the woods

Hunched figure filled with shame

And suddenly, with fresh cognition

I turned the way I'd came 

Author's Note

This was written specifically for a contest, I tried to write a style reflecting Edgar Allen Poe's. Please comment on how you think I did!

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A very well written tale. I like the location and the character. You took the reader to the place of mystery and I liked the logical ending. Always accept advice from unknown spirits in the forest. Thank you for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote

[The Hampstead Poet]

Thank you so much for your kind review, I am glad you've enjoyed some of my work. It is a great honour!

[Coyote Poetry]

Was my honor and you are welcome.