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Deliciously Wicked Writing

The Hunter

The trees crouched
Naked.
Huddled against the
Snapping,
Icy,
Breeze.
Branches woven,
Clinging together.
Arthritic twigs
Splintered and bent
As shimmering ivy
Slowly encircled
Their moss draped
Bodies.
Crumbling black bark,
Wrinkled with age,
Dropped,
Silently,
Onto the barren
Earth.
 
Alone,
The yew tree
Towered,
Over the bowing
Dwarven trees.
Fanning branches,
Blocked out the sky.
Walls of sallow bark,
Twisted like
Grotesque,
Dancing,
Wooden statues.
Dark knots erupted
From within the
Bark,
Screaming faces.
A gaping hole
Oozed darkness
Where its heart
Had weathered away…
 
A musty odour
Floated on the
Biting Breeze.
Camouflaged
Hunter coughed
And hid.
Waiting for his
Prey.
Eerie sense of being
Watched.
Sudden crack,
Of whip-like
Branch,
Pins him
Inside the
Tree.
Screaming,
Merging
Into the
Bark,
As first green
Shoots of
Spring
Appear.
 
by P.J.Reed ©2010

 

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