SESTINA

Lost was wandering through the wood;

a web with roots all full of fear

which swell and quake and keep the pulse.

The pulse of the man, the man with dark veins

under the ground in the cold,

wet, bitter, soft ground in the dark

Lost was wandering through the dark.

Dark seeping into the wood,

the wood that breathed cold

like the handles of fear

with the needle-y veins

shrink too thin, but the pulse

but the pulse

in the dark

pumping hard through the veins

in the woods

full of fear

which made cold

her small hands feel so cold

and it carries the pulse

the deft wiring of fear

through the dark

in the wood

and the veins

now run thick like the veins

the man close behind in the cold

follows through the wood

hers matches the pulse

of the man in the dark

his veins made of wood, his veins pump fear

and the fear

through HER veins

drives her mad in the dark

dark and too cold

to feel her own pulse

and she cries out, trapped in the wood.

blood run hot in the cold

rotten blade ends the pulse

the deafening sound, the pulse beating on wood