Deep in the woods, hidden away.
Snow covers the ground, the ground where it lays,
Battered and bruised, blood, ink and snow.
The fire surrounds it, it lives and knows.
Impressions are wrong, as are our thoughts.
The place where it lays, the fire so hot,
It burns and destroys, its path left in ash,
But there it still stays, a seeping wet gash,
On its back, its spine, down in the snow
Like a leaf from a tree, they'll never know.
On the outside it's frayed, charred and black,
The colour of night, the time of attack.
It lies in the snow, the snow so cold,
Yet it still stays, halved in a fold.
Ripped and gone, some now unknown
Others cut off, some still shown.
The black liquid smudged, dirty and wet,
Unable to see, but hard to forget.
But yet, what is left, a story, another
It tells us one thing: don't judge a book by its cover.