Alone, a sole figure
lingering in the blackness. Endlessly journeying
nowhere. Followed into the night,
a gust; a whistle building to a howl.
There is a rustling from deep within,
down in the undergrowth. Fingernails
clawing at the dirt trying to pull their way out.
Collapsed onto my knees, tearing at the soil
never reaching below the surface.
Dragged away, arms outstretched,
blustered along the path.
The wind, stalking closely, running its fingers
over the back of my neck. Exposed
to the icy grasp tickling, prickling,
scratching, shredding. A puppet master clasping
at my limbs, guiding me
through the trees to the edge of the forest.
The cutting breeze, glacial and sharp,
sends shockwaves through me
like a bat screeching out from the blackness.
All tilted, twisted, askew
the barn perches atop the hill.
It lies abandoned, beckoning.
With a dull creak, the door swings open.
Silence descends. A concrete blanket
sealing in the cold air. Deep and dark,
devoid of life but for a spider
hidden in the shadows.
The web waving in the stillness.
Patient. Waiting. Willing
its next victim
to fall. Its prey wound up
in a million miniscule strands
entangled for all to see.