Lost

Puce and rust soften the wooden swords growing from the mossy, damp earth. Browns in various shades of dark and light play along the angular branches. In between the layers of scale and grey flakes, green tufts mat the inner skin of the trees. Bits of fur and skin ripped from unsuspecting animals hang as warning flags upon the points. Mixing with the spores floating in lazy circles, decaying vegetation and rotting rodents waft upon the fetid air attacking the nose and the mouth with particles that will live again in another host. Insects with wings as fine as spider webs enclose the space above the groove in the forest floor, keeping all manner of beasties low to the ground. Shale slithers on the pathway, disturbing the peace with its quiet insistence of change.