"Silk" by Kathleen Morgaine Haubrich

Silk

Boughs of trees would wither forth as slender fingers laced about the crimson silk of darkness. Accustomed misery and lingering obscurity would stalk and wear upon us, as a sharper blade would seer and tear apart at young flesh, warm and red, yet undiscovered.

Diverging paths of forests overgrown and old entwine in and around itself, twisting and turning, and yet the question of false direction was never uttered. Led on by lack of a wavering spirit, but weighing down on us like a grindstone, twirling and pressing until mere dust remains.

See now, the loathing and anger, engraved to mortal form can be heard from beyond the dawn of mists which rise from the north. An immense shadow, let loose on a rampage chilling as the winter wind. Engagingly drawn and involked with it's kill. The blood of life, cradled to slavery.

Glimpsed by it's own lair of breath, the creature wanes on, as a shape in the wind, suffocated by graceful peril. Valliant men draw not near, and stags wander far amiss, for the aura of death lingers near. Ever shall they wallow in cowardess and mystery, haunted by the unknowing.

Ever looming, befriended my the murky hand of the unresored shadows, restless silence ensues. Eyelids drop in a sudden stroke, in a battle lost, to escape the ever wrinkled silk of darkness.