STANDING DEADWOOD
- 20 hours ago
- 1 min read
By Grace Henry
An old tree
Crumbling on the motte
Besieged by the river,
Caverns barricaded with moss.
Lichens cling
To cadaverous fingers, stretched out,
Clawing at the moon in her celestial palace,
With her dying star courtiers
Smouldering
Their last anthem to the cold abyss.
Roots, six layers deep,
Rotted and hollow as a collapsed foundation
On bent knee,
Crown falling to the floor.
Core all but pith and mould,
The blackening marches outwards,
Starving for treasure;
The kind that wraps around
With jewels and barbs and gilded chains,
Zircon, and iron
Painted like silver.
There are creatures in those soft,
Dark places,
Where the timbers creak and mortar trembles.
Their feet whisper through the barracks,
Croons of hate, promises of ashes,
Gnawing on their fists as the bodies
Pile on the floor—
Grotesque and segmented and
Waiting for something to devour.
There is a withering
Of the skin,
The brittle bark flakes.
Little buds, those brave sentries
Succumb to the onslaught.
Scorch-bleached leaves flutter
From their living graves, to the field
Of blood.