The Woodsman

A short poem about the things that go bump in the night.

The wind was warm, tinged with a musky scent. Clouds veiled the sun, casting a dull, lifeless glow. In the shadows of the woods, a figure began to take shape, stepping out from hiding.

His eyes were bright blue—like the ocean on a clear day. His fingers, long and thin like walking canes, ended in nails the color of decay.

The wind carried his scent—stronger now, moldy. His skin reeked of death and rot, soaked in the stench of forgotten corpses.

He stepped on the remains of children from cities he’d already left behind.