Cry, O Young One by Elizabeth Dorst

Sweet sap fills the air he sees,
Through the thick mist and trees,
He sees the bear-man, strong and tall,
The little tenderfoot drools,
He wants it all.

But alas, his small feet are weak,
He can’t express his love,
His spirit is meek,
He runs away when the bear-man is near,
From shyness and shame, rather than fear.

He has the right to run, for he is ugly,
His hair is matted in a knot,
Its color disgusting, like an oaken rot,
His voice is high and irritating,
You’d rather hear a horse’s stomach deflating.

Through the forest he walks,
He yearns for that bear-man he stalks,
He sighs, “O my love, you’re so robust!”
His shoulders shivering with desire and lust,
He moves in closer without kicking up dust.

He inches nearer, his throat starts to swell,
He can almost taste the bear-man’s musky smell,
Leaning forward, eyes fixed on his love his heart bestow,
He hadn’t seen the leafy branch below,
Hark! The sound echoes.

The bear-man twitches and looks directly at the little tenderfoot,
His hairy arms bulged with fur black as soot,
He glares with deep red glowing eyes,
He bellows, “What say, you? Little one that spies?”
Our small friend gulps and wipes his eyes.

“Great sir, I beseech you, have mercy on my mistake,
I was merely walking and saw your grace,” he spoke without break,
“Silence, fopdoodle! I shall hear you no more!”
He showed his claws, prepared for gore,
“Your face shall break my fast!”

This bear-man lunged and sliced this poor fool,
Guts splattered on trees, blood began to pool,
Bones were shattered, tendons were swallowed,
Ear-splitting screams soon followed,
This tenderfoot was the victim of false hope.

He dreamed too much and thought too little,
He deserved not to be free from remittal,
He should have feared Cupid’s bow,
For it closely ties with death, sorrow, regret, and woe,
Let this be a threat to lovers everywhere:

To strike at the heart’s warm glow,
Is to seal one’s fate, to let everyone know,
That you are a fool to be enslaved,
A tombstone ready to be engraved,
Cry, O young one, for you cannot be saved.

 

Biography: I live with a tiny dog. She keeps me company when I’m writing at home. I write things that come straight from my brain, and I try not to edit or alter my work in any way; It’s raw, basically. I think my biggest inspirations are Stephen King and Edgar Allen Poe. They write disturbing things, and I love it. Something about the disturbing side of life intrigues me. I like getting lost in something that makes me feel emotion. Perhaps it’s because I have lived a rather troubled life. Long ago someone important left me, and it has affected much of who I am. Creating and venting through words has helped in a way. When I write a poem, I’d like to think that Poe or King would enjoy it if they could read it. It doesn’t matter if they thought it was good or similar to theirs, what matters is that they enjoyed it. I hope people enjoy my work, even if they don’t think it’s Shakespeare. If they don’t enjoy it I hope they are disturbed by it. Enjoyment or disturbance, either is successful to me.