The taste of blood on her lips,
She opens them.
On the floor,
A dark pool in the midst of a glittering forest,
She wipes away the red metal.
Filling, with the no longer eery energy of the darkness,
Seeping around her.
Taking a stand,
Reaching high above,
Blooming into an old wise oak,
Sturdy in its wake
But there will always be a chunk
A book filled with rotting bruised bones
In its root.