Who lives in the woods?
Who lives in the wood?
Not in a house or cabin, they live in the woods.
They live in the woods, patiently waiting.
Horribly thin and wickedly tall, with spindly toes through the trees do they crawl.
Teeth made of nettles and long pointy thorns, eyes hollow knots under bark horns.
Who’s born in the woods?
Not made of blood or held in a womb, they’re born in the woods.
They’re born in the woods, ready and waiting.
They drop from the trunk of angry dead trees, in the woods they do just as they please.
Casting no shadow they fleet through the branches. Circling crows that give you no chances.
Who hunts in the woods?
Preferring their meals uncooked and screaming, they dine in the woods.
They dine in the woods, waiting for feeding.
Fingers thick as roots sneaking under new moon skies, relishing meat and the terrible cries.
Always awaiting they’re next weeping dinner. Disdaining the living save to play skinner.
Posted Jul 10, 2022, 6:11 PM UTC