The children were so fearful
with tears streaming down their cheeks.
Panting, out of breath;
So afraid, that no one speaks.
They ran away in panic
from the vision that appeared
and their comprehensive terror
was reflected in their tears.
They had ventured to the graveyard
where the wisest never go.
The old oaken growth enveloped
the hell-forsaken souls below.
The cold wind blew its branches;
sounding with a haunting call
as it's brittle leaves cascaded;
death-spiraling in their fall.
The children saw the images
imposed within the tree.
Rigidified expressions
gazing at them, vacantly.
The wind-blown oaken branches
gave the faces vibrancy.
Staring eyes were watching
with mouths gaping absently.
Silent screams were uttered
and their nightmare had begun.
Horrification at it's apex
as the children turn to run.
The branches seem clairvoyant,
in their splintered, cold embrace
with a morbid, precognition
to hold them there, in place.
The bramble clawed their ankles
as it sprung its hidden snare.
The oaken beast's lower appendages,
gripping talons in their hair.
Gothic in appearance;
Awestricken terror is applied.
Demon-Spawned Foreboding.
Children cower, petrified!
Silver trophy winner
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