In ominous tones the shadows of dusk fall

With a groaning, a moaning, the black trees sway

Shadow begets shadow as darkness descends

Like a heavy blanket of foreboding woe

The air, like a frozen hag, is whipping about

the barren branches of the valley

Hissing and whispering to the inevitable night

with frost upon her blistery tongue

a carpet of decaying vegetation is scattered and tattered

across the earthen floor of the wood

with fallen limbs reaching from underneath

like the arms of the dead clawing forth from their muddy graves

Through the midst of this cold and desolate wasteland

not a sound can be heard

save the crunching steps of very light feet

Two little feet that navigate this pathless void

The snapping of twig and the rustling of rotting leaves

Darkness consumes the wood. Through the branches

black clouds can be seen boiling in the slowest of motions

Moving with the lethargy of an old and haggard woman

Fissures of sky rip through the still and frothy firmament

at random intervals, haphazard in their shape and

allowing the steely bolts of frozen moonlight to cut into

the dark wood and destroy tiny patches of darkness

a amber-violet haze challenges the shadows, but does not defeat them

the darkness and the aura of refracted starlight war with each other

a slow and thick war

Mist fills the void, and the little steps can still be heard

The only physical expression of life

through it she moves

Ever westward

Step by steady step

Slow and determined

The darkness does not disturb her

For she is her mistress

And she is her mystery

Scarlet

blood red

the only color

the only life

to contradict

to compliment

this cold and desolate scene

her features cloaked

enveloped in shadow

and illuminated by the moon

~j.d. schofield