Now I live on the plains
but once I lived in the woods
whose deep darknesses
I loved, feared, thrilled to.
Once I came across a house
no one had ever seen before
where lived an old crone
whose necklace was of bones.
She owned a white dog
(or maybe it owned her)
whose red eyes glowed green,
the strangest eyes I’d ever seen.
I didn’t go in the house
when she invited me for tea
(did I mention the bones and dog?).
I backed into the black trees.
On the plains houses are plain—
their crones never wear bones.
Yet I miss the strange woods
as I miss madness, horror, and pain.
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