Golden

They watch with golden eyes as we walk the paths of light and shadow.

They smile with shining teeth as we stumble to the side of the road.

They pick at our clothes with claws slimed in the filth of the graveyard.

They whistle and moan as we stumble by, blinded by the snapping limbs of the ancient trees which line this dark and shadowy road.

They mutter to us in the whispers of the dead, with voices stolen from beneath funeral shrouds.

They draw and they tempt and they cry and they beg from the darkness at the side of the road.

It is said when they finally come for you, their eyes glow golden with the light of their everlasting hunger and their eternal hate.

It is said this light is the burning of the fire which seared them when their mortal bodies became too foul for life to stand.

And it is said that the only way they can ease that withering flame is to quench it with the blood of the living and the whole.

The forest air stinks of burning blood tonight.

And there is a golden light beneath my bed.