The Woodpile
Creep around the stacks of wood
To see if something's there
That shouldn't be there if it could
Before it vanishes into thin air
Watch it crawl away too fast
With a face of mud
Because its face has long decayed
From death and time and blood
Follow hard upon its track
And you will not come back
Snatch you down its muddy hole
It makes its nest and naps.
Copyright © Michelle Taylor | Year Posted 2022
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