Dark Wood

I know better then to be here
I’ve been told
Things happen here
Bad things

Yet I am drawn
No. More like willed
I have not the power to resist
I cannot

I smell the decay
The cloying stench
Of rotting, fallen trees
Lying as if in wait

My tread but a whimper
Nothing lives here
Why am I here?
What do I seek?

The dark wood thickens as I move
Unsteady now, steps made with trepidation
I sense movement, I’m not alone
Something sinister is watching

Hollow whispers. Jumbled sounds.
Seem to move closer
Dare not look back
Fear grips me. Constricts my throat

A light. Did I see a light
Through the dark wood
I feel it. The stale breath of death
Terror overtakes me. I cannot breath

It is too late, I did not listen
The light. Brighter. Closer now
Playing with me in the dark wood
Reaching. Touching. Caressing

I hear a scream. It is me
I should not be here. I knew better
Things happen here
Bad things

About oldmainer

I am a retired manager living in Southern Maine and a would be writer of poetry, narratives, short stories, and random opinions, and that's how Oldmainer was born. Recently, I decided to try an experiment. I added photography to the mix, using only a cheap cell phone with a limited camera and the editing software that came with it, and added the blog site Inklings at poormanspoet.wordpress.com to showcase the results. So, feel free to use whatever you find interesting or worthy, but please honor the terms of my copyright when and if you do. They may not be much, but they are still a piece of me. I appreciate your checking me out and hope that you find something that will encourage a return visit. Thanks for stopping by.

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