There Crack the Twigs

bread crumbs and grey stones purged
from pocket depths, n’ twigs are
no match for her rubber
footsteps
,

in dusty chalk sky, winds carry her
scent without rainin’ those
pins of regret,

fated to apple’s bite at twilight’s
sharp strike, a hush brought on by
fangs in neck suggest a halt
in fawn’s breath
,

baited, for another,
or posing as a prime
portrait of
death.

alas, gold weaves its
worries through her cold,
tussled hair,

tragic to think, she never
caught my ripe stench
from o’er there
.

image: https://www.creativeboom.com/inspiration/ghostly-paintings-of-beautiful-women-lost-in-the-woods/

image: https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Lost-Girl/328238/4240075/view

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