brown.

It will all sound contrived,

the forest being hungry

for naught knows what --

the sea of ivy,

poisoned. And the thorns

- the ones I'd rather have than spiders.

And just after saying it,

running into webs - one

after the other.

What of it?

A shattered pile of sticks from childhood --

one unrotten log.

And all of it

coming together just in time

for me to run back and wash it off --

if it was on time.

But there it is, anyways. We'll call it

brown.