poetry from cold autumn days

IV. The woods

With a shovel in one hand and a knife in the other I head towards the woods where the fireflies lead the path. Woodland makes way, sneaks a peek from their shelter or from up the branches of these old pine trees. I breath in deep, so deep that the fragrance of the forest makes my skin harsh, full of bumps. Shadows creep between the trees, their red eyes watching me. I pretend not to notice.

I pretend not to feel as their claws dig into my shoulders and the bad thoughts come back once again.

I pretend they're not here as I dig my own grave.