Ebony Hallow
There are hands that extend.
Crookedly they creep, their twisted branches reaching for me.
Decaying twigs resemble fingers, fingers that coil in midnight locks.
Ebony hallow, where the beast bay’s at the alabaster moon.
A scarlet cape tattered and worn.
The air is dense, it chokes with stench.
Things rot that lay shallowly buried.
Ebony hallow, where spirits wonder.
Aimlessly they moan with restlessness.
Petrifying specters.
In ebony hallow, blood runs deep.
Rivers of red, bedrock drenched in vibrant shades of rouge.
It numbs you, your senses heightened, the feeling of being hunted intrusive.
God rest your soul shall you ever enter the woodlands where foul play.
Ebony hallow, a cold October, an unforgiving fate.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2016
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