Always beware

what lies there,

of what is concealed

hiding behind the limbs of trees

lurking in the far off field.

 

Beware of yourself

all a - tremble

at the hushed wraith that dissolves

and dissembles

 

and keeps everything for itself

leaving you on the periphery.

Prod it with a stick,

watch it swirl on your clothes.

 

Bound to be a witch or two

as shapes take stitches

and weave you into a web of dreams.

 

Don't believe in signs,

keep to the track,

never look back.

The fog is drawing your outline

on breath,

or so it seems.