The branches bent toward a killed sky like arthritic fingers, reaching for a future they could no longer see or grasp. The bleeding knots would spurt and spew sickness that allowed them to speak only then.
They had eyes that dripped sap. I touch it, and they blink at me. It smells like broken bread.
I remember the sound of a storm wind sifting through the tops. It used to sound like old parchment. But here, there were only screams. Screams like a raw nerve, blooming through the thick air.
The faces of women leered at me as their claws dug into many’s weathered bark. I almost thought I knew them.
I look down at hands.
They would never go home.
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