a wine-dark wood

In my dream
the air that escaped your lips
turn to shadow, spilling on the ground
I saw crooked black trees and gray streams
crawling ivy lined dirt paths
and the heads of snakes blossomed from the earth
I stripped myself of my clothes
and bathed in frigid waters
the moons reflection crept across the ripples
there were no screams
only whispers you could hear
with your ear to the soil
and only illusions of something moving (among the bushes)
alluring me to a final rest.
though the air seemed clean
the gnarled roots offered no soft sleep
so I laid in the sinking moss
covering myself in burnt leaves
I sang a soft song to the ravens above me
until they wept and tore at the bark of the trees
and I sank beneath the earth

all I remembered
was the splitting screams
(songs of the angels)
as they closed my eyes to sleep