Demons 11.06.011

Endangering Old Squalor's home,
I go into the wood alone.
With fear to pierce
my neck, my skull:
blood runs in ribbons from my knees;

into the wood alone I go.

The trees whisper tricks and secrecies
of bugs and humdrum forest-lull.

The mist surrounds me fore and aft:
preceding dreams and the receding screams
as sanity, fleeting, drips trails behind me;

into the night I flee.