Forest Child

Who can hear the forest child,
Shrieking in the night?
Who cares to acknowledge her,
A lonely little sprite?

She flies among the birds;
In foxes’ dens she lays.
She knows naught of words,
For in the wild she plays.

A gown made of nightmares
Is what she likes to wear
While frolicking in the wind
And tossing her long hair.

Where she walks, daisies die;
By roses they’re replaced.
And as such, she molds the world
To suit her own dark taste.

Ribbons made of spider-silk
Are her trade-mark tool.
They herald her arrival and
Strangle passing fools.

And yet, this dark forest child
Does not wish to be so;
She yearns for companionship
To set her heart aglow.

Please don’t blame the forest child,
‘Tis all a pathetic plea.
I know this all too well;
The forest child is me.

by kazedragon
posted on 08/11/2009