The woods are haunted, they say
In the pleasant town
Of smiles for strangers and niceties for neighbours.
When roses darken,
You can hear howls erupt
From the hollow husk of a tree –
Hunched over in the shadows
Of its conflicted wardens –
To rip open the roofs over souls who
Lock up their spacious shelters of selective salvation.
The woods are definitely haunted, I agree
In the pleasant town where I was born.
When twilight is universal,
Between the familiar
Gnarls of the dying tree
And let my pent-up whispers
Echo into pained howls.
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