The taste of blood on her lips,

She opens them.

It drips,

On the floor,

She lays,

A dark pool in the midst of a glittering forest,

She wipes away the red metal.

Eyes open.

Searching.

Wondering.

Filling, with the no longer eery energy of the darkness

Seeping around her.

Taking a stand.

Reaching high above,

Blooming into an old wise oak,

Sturdy in its wake,

Tranquil,

But there will always be a chunk,

A book filled with rotting bruised bones

In its root.