Every evening as the harvest sun sets,

I am reminded of the horror at the edge of the woods.

Without sleep and in the deprivation of my study, I ponder the remains of this lonely field.

No one comes here anymore,

yet there's one who never leaves.

I see it always. A crucified and twisted soul.

I see it swaying and moving,

somehow creeping

in autumn's chilling wind.

And I can't escape it's ruined presence.

I know it's looming hunger. I feel it inside my thoughts.

It strangles me

with a head of terrible emptiness.

I can see it.

And I can feel it.

Coming closer.