She makes dolls, and they all have faces, one has your face, she buries them in the dark of the forest at night, the town hears her screaming, no one goes into the woods at night, she walks there until the mist glows a bone white sadness over her field and fences among the tortured flowers of this place.
There are unfaded roses in a circle around a grave, small, ornate stones and a seraphic glow among the dying embers of light breathing through her trees, the painted clouds are aflame and a bitter orange, an altar ablaze, another doll to be planted, the forest trembles, a meadowlark watches silently atop the well, and you will suffer, your dreams will rot and such will be how your life tastes, tongue black, eyes devoid, this is how you will die, it starts to rain, a broken and rotten branch caves in and the poisonous bugs scatter, the red clay and mossy clearing is alive, she screams and screams until there is no sound.