I know it’s watching me from between the dusty pines,
learning my path and mimicking my gait.
Maybe it’s just my shadow and the light is playing tricks,
but I swear it moves for a fraction of a second after I stop.
Maybe it’s the ice in the air that is refracting it all wrong,
maybe there is nothing to fear but the illusion of safety.
Still I stumble on down this narrow, winding path,
branches snagging on my sleeves and slowing down my pace,
and all the while that shadow or whatever it is to be called,
keeps up with me and never lets me out of his hungry gaze.

The trees are never-ending, there is no break that I can see,
no meadow swaying with grass so green in a murmuring breeze,
just the sound of my own heartbeat pulsing in my ears,
drowning out the footsteps my shadow must surely make.
There are other shadows creeping in from the corner of my sight,
the light I’ve come to take for granted fading from my view,
but still I persevere and determined to overcome
whatever may be hunting me, whatever must be there.
But a dream this is, no mortal man should fear what isn’t there,
a mirage of such sublime beauty that no one could ever believe.

And I stop.
Frozen in place.
It is in front of me.
It is I myself.
There I stand.
The dark me.
The me I hide.

It speaks my name.
The language of horror.
Riddles and rhymes.
He comes at me.
I try to fight.
There is no point.

The woods this time of year are a much deeper shade of green,
and the ice hanging in the air shimmers like dead angels.
But the snow around my feet slowly begins to melt
as the darkness and heat come flooding in and take over my being.