I stand among the trees

Enshrouded in pure white

Winter stillness.

Slowly

Deeply

The fog consumes the forest.

In haunted silence

Deadened oaks and maples

Loom tall and bare,

Monuments to dead idols.

Their gnarled-finger branches

Reach into the opaque sky

Grasping at nothing.

A frozen lake beckons me

With its glassy face,

A hibernal desolation.

With steps bitter and cold

I trudge towards it.

The December wind gnaws at my cheeks.

When I arrive I stare deep

Into its smoked glass mirror

Transfixed as Narcissus.

Unaware it was closer to

Nietzsche’s abyss.

Staring back at me is me

But not.

My face gazed back

The eyes were all pupils.

Black voids.

The other me brought his palms

Up to the frosted ice window.

Disbelieving, I lowered my palm to the ice.

But it wasn’t ice I felt. It was

Cold

Hard

Skin. 

Chills crawled through me

The spell is broken.

I ran back the way I came

Ignoring the knife scrapes from twigs. 

The trees were clawing for me.

After I escaped, I vowed never to return

To that forest brought to life 

With its frozen, black heart.