A black and white thorny / windy-looking background reads the distorted words “In the silence of my own breath, I will grow from the darkness a new skin / what is there but air and stale earth to womb me?”

hatchling

2020

poetry, digital art

The whispers are growing:

Something has been festering in the forest swampland, feeding on the fog. The demon trees have been unusually quiet as of late.

And what is that smell?