It had stood at the edge of the wood for ages,
An omen of great powers at use.
Many who first found the settlement knew to stay away,
They felt raw energy rippling through air.
Yet time dulled primal warnings,
A generation passed into forgetful slumber.
And wandering flesh found themselves within the wood,
Something awoke.
It was late in the fall,
Harvest had been less plentiful so a hunt was raised.
Men walked upon inflated confidence,
That ebbed as trees grew thicker.
Silence was shaken when one returned,
Slick with sweat, mud, and tears.
A young man no older than fifteen,
Beneath the caked mud and raucous screams.
Blood pooled from lacerated symbols,
He fell at the base of the witch tree.
Smearing his life upon dark matter,
The tree seemed to glow in evening light.
And as needles fell from naked limbs,
So ran these ignorant folk from the wood.
Now the omen watches all who dare look,
And dream about what lies beyond the witch’s tree.
-M.E. InkOwl
The Ink Owl 