There is a town by the name of Betuty.
Many do quite envy,
For it is what they cannot be:
A beacon upon a hill for all to see.

Colorful houses, none too plain.
Never even a drop of rain.
Yet all the harvests do go well,
As if under a spell.  

I do not envy it.
It is a frightful place to be.

Its’ citizens dance around a fire
screeching and laughing as they go.
Many times there are echoing screams,
of people like me
when caught
lingering.

Watching.

I cannot seem to get enough.

The night is my cape
a bush my refuge.

A misstep.
A broken twig.

They notice.

She knows too much.

I run and run and run from this town named Betuty.
I promise myself to never come back.

I never leave.