Run

Here I am, again my friend.

When will it stop, I don't know.

My legs grow weak as I run.

I cannot stop, lest my soul it rend.

"What is this thing?" you ask of me.

"That chases you past, the twisting forest."

In my haste, as I flee.

I refuse to turn my back and look.

It counjures feelings never felt

It strikes such fear. My bravery is gone.

And as I feel, I may survive the chase.

I feel it's breath upon my back.

~Goodbye

''This poem was found in a crumpled ball on the ground in the Black Forest of Germany. Surrounding the note were spatters of blood and rustled leaves. Two sets of tracks led to the scene. The first was an person of average hight running at a high speed. The other set of tracks indicate a person of extreme height (at least 8 or 9 feet) who was moving at a walking pace. The body was never recovered. ''