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When Walking Through Autumnal Woods at Night (a Scene)

When walking through autumnal woods at night,
wielding a maglight,
casting sick yellow bulb moonlight
through the bare anorexic trees,
Ghosts shine back, with faces
glaring at me from the bark of the white oak tree.
Every footstep crunches forever through those
rounded mountain ravines and
Hollows —
Echos and thoughts of my past.
When I think back to mountain mornings
I remember the numbness of my fingertips
sticking out of my cutoff gloves,
I remember the way cigarette tobacco
made my smoky breathe stink,
while all around me blended the smell of wet earth,
damp bark, and fresh moss.
A full moon shadowed the world —
milky yellow, amonia stench made its way
to my nostrils, flaring my senses and burning
my eyes.
Empty 2-liter bottle litter and broken
Budweiser glass lay fresh on the dirt
wood path —
I heard laughing, muffled voices, eratic chatter
and howls —
I sensed hounds all around me,
picking up my scent and following my trail,
close on my heels —
I asked myself if the ghosts
in the trees were mocking me —
On the ridge of a mountain, hours past
midnight in the misty mountain morning,
a lantern light flared in my vision, and below
were two souls, broken and life-weary —
reanimated corpses, rotting away—
They were two mountain alchemists,
mixing poison chemicals in pop-bottles,
amphetamine wizards, smoking off chemical fumes —
holding up a ziplock baggy which inhaled the smoke,
creating a closed experiment —
a miniaturized winter-bio chamber,
where chemical snowflakes fall, are captured,
and sold by the gram to anyone with money enough in their pockets.
This dark-force,
mountain magic —
a new age poison which
has diseased the population —
has forced families apart,
Broken hearts and homes —
keeps strong men weak, and blackens the soul—
forever the vampires of mountain night must feed.
On dark nights in the mountains of Appalachia
shadows creep and cry in the forests—
lost souls searching for salvation or sin,
whichever comes first—
and with a tornuquet about their arms,
and a surgical syringe easing through the top layer of their skin --
they push down on the plunger,
and a great hush falls all about their ears —
their eyes focus, and stare down a tunnel
of rushing mad scenes—
this fuse sparks, creates smoke, and
from smoke there is fire,
their life is forever changed —
With fanged teeth and chemical burns button-holed
all about their bodies, they wander lost in the hollows
and hills of Eastern Kentucky, feeding on frenzied madness—
until one gray morning they reach too far towards heaven,
they turn cold, stiffened-limbs and hollow torso
Found days later --  
a rose in hip pocket,
Light prayers soft-whispered over head.

A rough draft of images I've been wanting to work with for a while now. I know its very wordy, and sometimes lacks transition. it will be several days before I can change it. I welcome all opinions.

6 May 17

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It's wordy, no?

I'm partial to a ditch or two myself, though...

Typo L79 ... maybe a couple...

With a rose in their pocket? A communal pocket? I would just remove 'their' all together and maybe ditch as well (loveable or not)

Found days later
Rose in pocket, prayers over head

Something like that
 — PollyReg

All the way through....
 — PollyReg

Well for starters, thank you for the comments and your opinion. Yes, I know it is def. wordy. I meant to post a note with it explaining that this is a rough draft, freshly typed just last night. I really wasn't sure in what direction I was taking when I started, so I really must go back through and cut a lot of things that just don't fit/work.
 — unknown

It was really just a chance for me to employee various images that have been stewing in my mind for the past week or so. Any other suggestions would be greatly appreciated.
 — unknown

I imagine that time sculpted is as a picture, a moment captured in these pixels of shadows cut into white, words in black lettered into these forum boxes here, in binary, then ASCII, sculpted bit by bit 'til they reach your eye where the language of light begins its show 'n tell, as neuronal-fires suddenly flower into the intelligence of design, a shadow-recognition, the gleaning-o-meaning, we call sublime consciousness -- and as a result of all these interpretations, this comes off as chaotic yet familiar, which is the way of casting out our neural-net gleaming again from our eye: Poetry is often like a magic show where we do our second-best trick first then we flutter along the arc-of our personal interests to our gran finale -- this piece holds the reader with deft imagery but the pace, the rhythm lingers too long in places, missing the beat of your investigations. Nonetheless your verity of wit is writ in it ...
 — AlchemiA

This has great potential but is currently overlong. It needs an edit.

Larry on and on and on Lark
 — larrylark