There are new shadows in this forest,
Standing straight, all leg-bone angles
Nothing stirs and nothing creeps
Between the blades of dark, though
I have seen many a furtive movement
Behind the lids of shut-tight eyes
And heard the mellow whisper
Of the Warden in my dreams.
Wherefore came you, Stranger? Where now treads
A silent stepper, slinking from the sunken spaces
Between the fragile seconds, beneath these
Speckling drops of hourglass dust – I would make
A friend of thee,
Even if your name means death
Spoken in some vile and twisting tongue
My jaws could never break to speak.
Haunt me, Wraith –
Stalk me, O Specter –
But this once-bright soul begs you,
Do not leave me lonesome, for fear
Is still the firmest friendship I have known,
And this shadow slipping soft-foot
Twixt the milky beams,
He bears my face alone.
© 2022 Jacob Steven Mohr. All Rights Reserved.