The Forest of Shadows

I am pursued through the forest
where there is no colour,
save that of feigned understanding.

Underfoot the rustling
of long-dead rumours
clutch at me like
the slime-laden claws
of some prehistoric
bastard crustacean,
spawned in hatred of change
by a dying mammal
made obsolete by the birth of man.

And the whispers, that were once screams,
that I hear through pounding eardrums,
are still persistent, yet false
as ever.
But I heed them less.

I stumble barefoot and breathless,
through the myriad graveyards
of the Seven Churches: besieged by bells,
garroted by rosaries, choking on the words of men
who would seek to lead, while their
need is to be led:
but they are not.

Dying with every step,
I am beaten, and in frustration
turn
to meet my pursuer;
then weep with futility,
for that dreaded Face
has my own image.