HORROR Poem: Abditory, by Raquel Nixon

There was once a girl who lived near a wood
where mysterious beasts and strange trees stood.
The girl and her friend loved to play and to dance,
and when opportunity came, they took their chance.

“Perdita, let us find a tree spectacular and grand,
and let it be the cornerstone of which our world will stand!”
“Yes Asha, let it be a tree of beauty and delight.
That will watch over us and shelter us when our new world comes to light!”

The young girls ran into the forest and found an enchanting path lined with flowers
So beautiful that they must have been blessed with crystal clear spring showers.
The path led to a place so bright and so clear,
And what in the center of that did appear?

A petite budding tree just burst from the ground
Amongst pink, blue and red flowers which did surround.
The young girls cheered, for they knew it would grow strong,
They knew so well they couldn’t help but burst into song.

“This shall be our tree!” the young girls cried with glee.
And thus they spent their time in blissful serendipity.

For years and years, the young girls cheered,
their new world had come together.
Full of wondrous things and mysteries
and their little tree did tower.

But as more years passed them by,
And the two grew older,
adulthood was too soon nigh.
Imagination turned its shoulder.

Perdita and Asha grew apart.
It was time that real life came to start.
Through obligation, they met sometimes.
But courtesy could not mend lost time.

As Perdita did her life pursue,
in Asha, a bright starlight grew.
And to her tree Asha went back,
with silent delight she found her new track.

Perdita had no time for such childish things,
She thought it was silly for Asha to cling.
Yet Asha grew more brilliant with every trip she made.
And to her misery had no stake to claim.

But one day Asha disappeared.
Soon, no one had seen her for days.
And her mother cried such trepid tears,
“When will it pass? This haze!”

And so, the town would look,
even great big trees they shook,
looking for the young maiden.
“Oh, good Lord!” the mother cried,
“please let her not be taken!”

The grief-struck mother did Perdita try to comfort,
“Or perhaps she’s gone to the tree, you see.
Or something else of that sort.”

So at the edge of the wood Perdita came to be,
bringing with her a group of townsmen.
“She will be in here, you see.
I know where she has been.”

And she led the way with all the say,
surprised by familiarity.
“Here, my friends, please do stay.
It must be her, up there, I see.”

Down the path, Perdita went, which haunted her with childhood.
It was the field, old world so free,
where a strange dark figure stood.

“Asha, there you are! Come with me,
the town has been looking all over for you.”
But the figure stood still, upon a small hill,
stroking a pink flower.

It said ‘you look for me but still. You see,
this is my final hour.”
Perdita touched the figure,
Its frame as cold as stone.
She expected it her friend to be,
but the face she saw was her own.