Iron Creeps Beneath My Skin

I find iron creeps beneath my skin; the subtle pallor of winter wins against whatever limping spring I escaped. I've salted the ground beneath me, sown brittleness made from the lingering hopes kept too close.

I set the compass down; the magnetic center of the earth sure to lead me home. Instead, it spins and spins and spins and what walking and waiting I've done seems to have lead again into the dark wilding wood. And I move from a dark county into a dark country.