Her eyes open in fear, nearly dead
The ears perk upward, they can even hear the happenings in the trees.
Clothes torn, into uneven pieces,
The hands are long and bloodied.
Her fingernails hanging off,
As she runs away from the man in black.
The forest is dark, nearly entirely black,
The scent of the forward trail reeks of the dead.
But as she runs toward the exit, she trips on a dirt mound, the ants dropping into ears, jumping off.
As she looks up, the wood’s cry out, though the soft trees,
but the pleas stop, the soft murmur turns into a poem of the creature and the bloodied.
She tries to get up with haste, but drops at the thought of turning up into magazine pieces.
Her thoughts stopped, her bloodshot eyes looking it looking at the dirt mound pieces,
her brain trying to wrap around the ants of black.
“If I do not get up, I’ll so soon be gone and buried and bloodied,
dying, fading, fertilizer for the willow trees, but maybe I can be better use to them dead”
Her legs long and thin, stained by the twigs pieces belonging to the trees,
her knees try to move, but one move could leave them without her, leaving her no longer to be off.
She moves, her mind full of thoughts, but draining til it squeezed memories themselves out and off,
The bits and facts she knew are just long ago 3rd grade art pieces.
Her impulses force her to move forward, running away from the figure hidden among trees,
the birds cry out, singing about the longing of her turning gone and ashy black.
The small black ravens, too, are crying about in baritone in the realms of the dead,
as she looks back, to the creature in a cage dyed with men bloodied.
The tall man,approaching her, stained with impure clothing, drenched and bloodied
he has’ killed before, the stains of the souls left him insane and off.
She impulsively looks back at the man, but his presence his long dead
the drenched man in crimson has faded into the approaching insane pieces.
The bird’s eyes are staring at my back, holding back laughter til their blood turns black.
The red piercing eyes just above the new moving figure, a disfigured man beneath the trees.
The figure following her howls, breaking the bark hanging tightly and suddenly falling off the trees.
He rushes towards the woman, screeching while tripping over the bark, leaving her foot bloodied.
Her palm, wrinkled and traced into a prophecy of old age, reaches toward the man in crimson black.
The eyes of him, multiple spiraling colors into one, staring into space to seem off.
His face, tooth and nose bruised, hanging by a vessel, his ears into 5 hundred unique pieces.
The wonder of the modern world, as in medieval ages he would’ve been dead.
The man in black might as well be dead, hanging around this forest of trees.
But he hangs onto his life in pieces, the glorified life of the bloodied.
His fingers are cold and off, he dies with no farewell, the man in plague’s black