There’s something about the leaves,
the ways in which they whistle.
They whip and weave around you,
they’ll cut you like a thistle.
They don’t like outsiders,
you aren’t one of us,
turn back now,
it’s the woods you shouldn’t trust.
The trees tell stories of a dark,
black nature.
Human,
Unstable,
Unnatural nature.
The trees are stained,
the leaves are sharp,
it’s best if you just go.
You wouldn’t want to end up here,
on ropes,
in wind you’ll blow.
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