THE WOODSMAN

The woodsman is a freak of nature
Surely nothing made by God,
He lives in a doom-haunted forest
In which all life is a little odd.

He's made of wood, bark, and vines
All encircled by monstrous leaves,
He draws his energy from the sun
And never even needs to breathe.

Lurching through the evil forest
He searches for quarry to kill,
Murder is in his very essence
He wreaks mayhem for a thrill.

Human or beast he doesn't care which
All life is equally worthless to him,
And so he hunts and kills innocents
All to fulfill a monstrous whim.

Wooden creaking as he moves
Alerting birds and insects to run,
Yet still, he hopes to make a killing
Long before this day is done.

Blending into tree trunks
He can vanish from human sight,
Then he reaches out as they pass
Killing them for sheer delight.

Wringing their necks with wooden hands
Or pulling their limbs from the sockets,
Nothing they do can stop his death spree
Except for one item in their pockets.

Pulling out a lighter or matches
Humanity can finally fight back,
Igniting the wooden rampager
Burning him into charcoal black.

THE END
© Copyright 2021 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia