What seek you here tonight, my dear?
This is no place to be.
The moon is low, the mist aglow
with ancient mystery.
The wolf, the bat, and owl
are hunting prey tonight, you know.
But you won’t see or hear them, dear.
You really ought to go.
They sent me out to warn you, dear.
Don’t walk among the trees.
There’s things that grip you by the throat,
and drive you to your knees.
I’m glad you’re coming back with me.
The woods are cold and dark.
Whatever where you doing here
among the winter bark?
Your eyes are glowing. Don’t know why.
And now you’re snarling, too.
I’m bleeding as I find, too late,
the hunter here was
you.
BlackQuill 