All these nights spent on backroads

peering into the woods at watching eyes

passing us by as stars of a winter sky

Scars we leave here for the sun to find

remnants of a single quiet moment

fathomless as a song of mourning

on this road diverging in woods

that cannot know what happened here

A wanderer created for these trees

lost and free to move in the grace of shadows

far from creeping fear and the pain of breaking dawn

felt by those living whose minds are still lost in the forest

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I think I sort of get the appeal of joining a cult. I wouldn’t do it myself, but I get it.

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Photo by Michael Marcon on Unsplash