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“May the forest be draped in the finest of silk and string, may he forever be adorned with the finest riches of the earth, may the coins weigh heavy on his eyes.” This is what The Poet will forever write. The Poet was a strange man with an even stranger name. The Poet was not a person per say, but a personification, like the void and the late forest. The Poet did have a name, his name was Joe Hills. He looks the same as any other Joe Hills, for they are all the same. Joe Hills has been around since language was invented, so he was perhaps one of the older gods, but perhaps he was newer, it all depended on viewpoint. Joe Hills was perhaps best acquainted with the lady undead, for she was the only one who actually knew who Joe Hills was beyond just a name. The Lady Undead was the one who Joe Hills told all his stories to, for she had all the time in the world, for their time would never end. The Lady Undead had been the one to dress The Forest when he had passed. The Forest had been loved by all the primordials, and it was a travesty to see him go.
The Poet stopped writing, as this story has not come to an end yet. “But maybe” he thought, “I can end this story eventually.”