My Nightmarish Beast

Standing lo, a beast of crazed proportion
withers into the fog of a winter's nightmare,
fading amongst the looming silhouettes of the trees,
and marking a ghastly trail of doom with its footsteps.

Against my better judgement, by its beck I follow,
entranced and trapped in the tight hold of pure horror.

Lay tangled in the thicket bushes of the woods,
the mangled corpse of a doe sings in its scarlet decor.
And the beast, its eyes a terrifying yellow glaze of malice,
howls wildly, furiously, and steadily in the anticipation of death.

To hear the sound is to die of the world's pleasantries,
and to acknowledge that you will never again be free to smile.