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.