Misty Hollow

Who really knows what treads there?

There, in the silent hollow,

There in the thicket of great gnarled,

Trees that look like starving beasts,

Bent, bulky, dark and menacing in their eccentricity,

Agreeably ominous in their collectiveness,

Uninviting, yet morbidly gorgeous,

Forever shrouded by a heavy mist,

Hardly a foil for their sinister demeanour,

More a majestic coat spread elegantly,

Incubating their festering emotions,

At their clubbed feet,

A mashed up fusty carpet of dead leaves,

Twigs and insects,

Where other unscrupulous insects burrow and make life,

 Almost in worship,

Of the demon trees towering above them in colossal fortitude,

The little insects hardly count as intruders,

As they are just creepy extensions,

Baseless minions who ogle but threaten nothing,

Everything is a stranger here, everything that is of this place,

Indifferent, haunting,

As is everything that is not of this place,

Judging, envying…

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3 responses to “Misty Hollow

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