woodfolk
At the lip of dusk she stood
ready to be devoured;
a red riding hood of sorts.
The axe she hefted scoured a rut
through stunted fern and Autumn death.
Her once white apron, red and wet.
A body basked within the mist
as evening stretched its maw
legs cut and bloody lay.
The treeline; jagged toothed on distant hills
held wolf-song longer than an echo should,
Where early risen bats could feed on sonic feasts.
She beckoned with the blooded blade;
no need for words, I simply left the porch
that held the light that swung a softness
Succulent the pork that night
it fed us as friends do.
So do not wander in these woods
or you could feed us too.
At the lip of dusk she stood
ready to be devoured;
a red riding hood of sorts.
The axe she hefted scoured a rut
through stunted fern and Autumn death.
Her once white apron, red and wet.
A body basked within the mist
as evening stretched its maw
legs cut and bloody lay.
The treeline; jagged toothed on distant hills
held wolf-song longer than an echo should,
Where early risen bats could feed on sonic feasts.
She beckoned with the blooded blade;
no need for words, I simply left the porch
that held the light that swung a softness
Succulent the pork that night
it fed us as friends do.
So do not wander in these woods
or you could feed us too.