A/N: My epic poem!  Full of romance and adventure and mystery!  And deep dark bubbling pools of what we all thought was rainwater, but I swear to Yun-Harla herself they were really bubbling!  Freaky, huh?

White mud.

That’s what I remember, even as

we climb up layers of rain-washed stone

Mud

We gained the higher ground,

Trees, pine and mighty oak

we run the broadleaf forest path

dodging continually puddles of

white mud.

The cold which set us shaking

is now forgotten

rain now, falling with

a haphazard trickling sound

of necessity we watch the ground

roots threaten violence

and rocks

and puddles of

white mud.

Entering the realm of the Mountain Laurel

the path is cleared

but for the old evils

roots, rocks,

white mud.

There is something wrong with mud that is white

black, brown: clean colors in a way;

red cakes the shoes,

is hateful, but normal

but now we follow this trail

that beckons on, mocking cleanliness

with her sickly, yellowish

white mud.

Garish leaves now.

Path leads onward

no brown! lemon yellow

tipped with magenta

here.  there!

I cannot look up

a slick path now, treacherous

with wet lemon magenta,

roots more numerous

rocks—flat and slippery—and

white mud.

Forward, onward:

ahead, pine woods

dark trunks on either side

white mud

Yellow-orange needles litter the path

clash sickly, conceal

stones—more rocks now

puddles, deep and bubbling and black

yellow-brown a bed over

white mud

There’s something wrong with

mud that is white, something

indescribably unsettling in seeing it beneath

the tall roots

sharp rocks

between dark trunks ahead

clouded skies above crying raindrops

cold trying to find a way inside

every seam and piece of rain-soaked fabric

but still, what I remember is

white mud.

A/N: That little button right down there is for reviews.  Be sure to tell me if you want me to write stuff while I’m high on coffee again!  Fun!