The eerie fog looms just below the treetops
The sound of crunching branches fills my ears
The owls, protectors of the forest, ask who goes there
It is I, great owls of the forest
A pause in noise, as if the world had stopped
Suddenly
Twinkling rays of the moon shoot through the fog
Lighting the path ahead
Like it had always been there
I walk down the path, not knowing who is watching
Or who is following
Or if I will ever make my way home

Strings, strings, wrapping around porcelain skin,
For why does the bruises not show?
With a waist, hip, and two legs that are so thin,
For why does the skin always glow?
Hair that never sheds, nor grows, nor messes,
For why does the girl not wash it?
With a merry face that still never truly expresses,
For why does the face not show even a slight fit?
Stoic, conjoined, the feet never stomping,
For why does the limbs never feel frostbit?
Perhaps it is a lie that the being is a girl,
As it is only with strings that she can ever twirl.

Silent and alone, I solemnly gaze at the aged court.
The hallowed roar of a steady stream
Suffocates the atmosphere

Like decrepit statues, they silently stare

The deflated and beaten sphere in my tiny hands.
Bitter tears, from the blackened surface
Prickling my bare feet.

Swish, thump, swish, thump.

The rickety backboard half-heartedly
Gives off a rattling cry.
It's tattered net cannot take much more.

An ashen pit, with stale passion

Surrounding bushes gag
On bleak sunlight.
I dejectedly make shot after hopeless shot.

A taunting figure cackles and booms.

my wrist yearns to cry
my soul wills to break
my heart throbs to seize
spiraling into an inescapable
depth
darkness
death
paralyzing me
not in fear
but in reality
for this is what I want.
engulfed in silence
my wrist cries
my soul breaks
my heart seizes