Don’t Go Into the Woods

Don’t approach the dense misty wall
Surrounding the wayward woods.
Those who stood on the border of the thickening fog
Return with the gaunt shadowed eyes,
Confirming it is not the devil lurking inside.

“Don’t pass through the misty shroud,” locals warn.
It is alive with a wicked and evil might.
Not an evil which slithers or growls, baring it’s teeth.
Nor a body to fall at the thrust of a sword to the hilt.
What lies within the misty shroud has no name or form.
For not even the devil possesses this level of intoxicating evil.
It’s an alluring haze masking the tendrils
That push against one’s intuition for survival.

“Don’t go into the woods,” locals beg.
It’s a malignant growth feeding off of the
Blood and tears from those who did not heed advice.
The trees made of bark with the feel of bone,
Sprouting branches of cold gnarled fingers.
The very fingers stroking your spine,
Sending shivers and goosebumps to crumble
The brittle walls protecting sanity’s salvation.

But the stranger always goes, as the locals shake their head.
Another soul lost to the shade tending to its abominable grove.