I've been thinking of submitting this poem to the bardic thing...so yeah...please review!

The sound of creaking branches
Slowly fills the air,
As crows look for prey
To tear
Apart with their razor beaks.

Below on the ground,
Are many thorn beasts
While on the eastern side,
The undead prepare to
Feast.

Under the surface
Business booms.
Objects ranging
From vials to clothes
To runes.

This forest of darkness,
Indeed has a name.
And it differs from the north,
In many a way.
Glomdoring.