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The Trees EpochalHurrying towards the odious glen,The Trees Epochal
The red grass bloodying the midnight fog,
Seeking solace from the moon who glows like the garb of he who is forever chasing,
forever lurking in the shadows of the wood.
Hiding in the wake of a monolith
that smells of brackish and feels like carrion,
You peer out at your pursuer,
Who lies dead in the bracken
at the edge of the trees.
Without him you are blissfully alone, hatefully alone,
Truly alone
Moon or no moon--
And even the grass,
who has seen enough bloodshed to be a sea,
ceases to whisper.
&n
by ~Pwar
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