He stood rigid and bent like a dying tree,
Among the pines which groaned for company.
That woman, he never again would see.
The ground yearned to consume him,
His hand was raw and red.
Clutched over his heart, each beat,
Reminding him she was dead.
He was alive, but his death he could foresee,
He leaned his aching frame against a dying tree.
He liked the rough bark, it felt like the texture of life.
That’s when it came for him, dark and cloaked with scythe.
The tree’s groans boomed upon that moonlit hill.
As the ground ached with hunger, yearning for a fresh kill,
The bells rang but no angels sang and finally his heart went still.