Up on pine cone hill
The trees converse in strange, spiteful
tongues.
Demons lurk in the plumage of absinthe
forests,
Waiting, oh waiting,
For a delicate flower to pass by.
Verdant eyes peer out of moss-ridden
knots and roots:
A devil’s sight and a bold presence.
Up on pine cone hill
Horns arise from mountainous pines,
Headstones rock in the shallow Earth
That separates our world
From Hell.
Rocks jut out like teeth in the riverbed,
And the bones of fishes swim among
the banks.
Up on pine cone hill
Ghosts hold out hoping to haunt another
victim.
Willows sway as the crunching ground
stutters and groans.
Little thorns grow to massive stakes,
Piercing the world and degrading the air.
And up on pine cone hill,
A monster sits upon his throne.