I started on this path,
With plans of returning.
Just to see what was over the hill,
And then go back.

But I lost my map in this giant meadow of literary flowers,
Filled with hopes, dreams, and ambitions,
Populated with cornucopia of characters,
A never ending flow of words and emotion.

I picked a flower here,
I picked a flower there,
And soon,
Before my very eyes,
A basket of my own literary flowers appeared.

I kept walking through this meadow,
Over the hill and beyond,
Without my map,
But never without a helpful nudge to steer my way.

The flowers extended,
The meadow grew before me,
The memories were formed.

I sat in this meadow,
Utterly at peace,
Utterly serene.

My presence came and went,
But my flowers stayed,
And my meadow grew.

Now, as I sit in my meadow,
Surrounded by these literary flowers,
These flowers that I’ve come to love,
A fire grows in the distance.

An unquenchable beast,
Driven by greenery and greed alike.

Unquenchable.

My meadow disappears.