A supernaturally possessed Glen and its many corrupted denizens reach out, entranced and hungering for the outsider---you. There is no escape, and the calm reality of the forest will be torn apart. This was sitting in my word processor for a while...festering. Hope you like it!
Things are so different in Archer’s Glen
You know where you came from but not where you’ve been.
The searchers might come to the rescue in time
Lest another soul be cast through the veil, what a crime.
You look for an exit, see only a maze
A field of tall grass where warped figures graze
Hopping on slender bone blades, unreal
This stroll in the forest has turned so surreal.
Up ahead in a clearing, you see things have changed
The landscape is hideously rearranged.
The flowers, once gorgeous now shine pure black
Mocking and saying, “you’ll never get back.”
The trees hang like corpse hands, outstretched and near
One holding a thing that had once been a deer.
A parody of nature, you cannot describe
It has not one head but…four…five?
Don’t look anymore, turn the opposite way
What is happening here? Where is the day?
Last time the sky shone, cerulean peace
That map in your hand held not one small crease
But now it is charred as though eaten by flames
And the sky, reversed ocean, almost the same.
Leaping through bushes and sharp thorny vines
The beasts of the Glen are drawn by your whines.
The keening, the fear-sounds, like sweet, sweet candy
If you just stayed put it’d be quite dandy.
A deafening roar causes limp trees to flinch
And the weapon you carry to use in a pinch
Is gone, replaced with a wad of earthworms
The Glen really wants you, they’ll all take turns.
Snatched up and dragged to a Monster’s Den
By things never seen by the eyes of men
You lie deep underground, so still and so cold
Made passive by forces both subtle and bold
Dead? Alive? There is no way to know.
Archer’s Glen will never tell you so.
A living secret, sheathed by the gloom
Warping and winning and spelling your doom.
Towering giants, stretch higher and higher
Those sickening visages had never been slyer
As they gather the dead and congealing things
And fashion them into portable slings
Made to carry the burden of exotic meat
And you the outsider, a remarkable treat.