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

Shifting shades that lack precision,
eye evading, vaporous vision,
fleeting flickers underexpose
ghostly glimpses that discompose.

Shadows speak in trembling tones,
mumbled murmurs, cackling crones,
bated breath while overcoming
stifled screams but not succumbing.

Befrozen blood stills hammering heart,
senses separate, perceptions part,
lost lucidity brings indecision
face or flee this spectrovision.

Shuddering skin turns pearlest pale,
hairs horripilate, portents prevail,
cold creeps craze a mind affrighted
spooky spectres come uninvited

An unwanted presence is now tapping on the window. The sky has shifted in colour reflecting the imminent emergence of a dark and ancient being. I’ve not known it before but feels strangely familiar, I do know you but choose to ignore you. Your laughter is haunting. I cannot reason or bargain with you. You have a singular purpose governed only by pure instinct. I’m powerless to fight against something I cannot see. But you’ve always been there gently reminding me that one day we shall finally meet. Desperately trying to avoid you I lost my way and found myself aimlessly wondering a path surrounded in darkness and uncertainty. The sudden realisation that you’ve tricked me and instead of running from you I’ve been heading towards you. With each step the path behind me falls away, there is no going back. I am alone. I’ve come to the end of the road, I see you now.

There are mausoleums of empty space and stark,
White bones with shallow pools of water
Shifting over stone floors

The echo of footfalls send ripples down the hall,
The crawling, creeping feeling which up my spine follows,
To ask the final question,
Who calls upon the dead?

Bring your truth not your anger
Though the alter take both
A burnt offering of words
As cinders fall
Off the smoking end of my tongue
The circle is drawn
You need only write your name
With the ink in your arms