The corn was a city of dry, golden bones, standing coldly

as daylight bled out like a fresh wound on the leaking horizon.

I walked in, the path closing behind me like an old faint scar

and then I heard it, a whisper, the sound of molded silk tearing,

an ominous muttering among the papery battle banners,

and it was then that I became fully aware, something paced me,

keeping just beyond my sight, footsteps rustling like turning pages,

and I was the trespasser in a library of decay, suddenly

I was the story, food for the lost souls hungry to read.