Warrior

Flutter of lids ceases.
The ring of light ‘round wax tower
Unveils a single parchment piece,
Quill and inkwell beside.

Quill raised, dipped black,
Hesitant hovers, uncertain.
One black drop falls,
Impatient.

Slight wind ripples,
But no window found open,
Only towering walls
Of bark and bough.

A leaf falls beside parchment,
Whispers of being watched,
Then vanishes, moving on
To its ground level home.

Snapping twig echoes warning.
Slow turn to see behind.
Looking back from beneath the largest tree,
The centaur warrior.

Neither moves, held transfixed.
The wind whispers unheard.
Locked eyes do not wander,
Cannot break away.

Words must have been spoken,
By the trees perhaps,
For the warrior looks sharply away,
Himself being warned.

The bond broken,
The quill may now call.
It begs to flow,
To write what eyes see.

But it is denied.
The warrior cannot, must not,
Be caged by written word.
Shall not be captured.

Movement again, he glances back,
Then swift steps away
And vanishes into dreamy woods.
Crying quill is set aside.

Why did I not write?
Many dream of holding magic in hand.
Long I have sought such wonder,
Hunted for that perfect sight.

But I could not.
I lingered too long and am glad.
For words would never do justice,
And cages kill dreams.