Dank and dense, drastically dreary,
Laced with mists, a frightful fog
Awash with whispers, weak and weary,
Here lurks a soul in every log.
The Forest aflicker, fledged with fears,
Sweeps through shades, greys and greens,
Gargantuan growth from The Child's tears,
Stops strangers still, with sightly scenes.
The Forest exists to confuse, bewilder,
Leaves loop round, barks of beauty,
Embroidered upon by a gifted gilder,
Distractful designs are their only duty.
Many have tried, axes and saws,
To no avail, the one way through,
To reach The Child, the lost cause,
Is to look upon, not see but do.
The Forest surrounds all lands inside,
A peninsula of perpetual pain,
Halting all whom have tried,
To enter with no hint of strain.
This heaving mass moves mountains,
Encompasses armies of men,
Wakes waterfalls, fools fountains,
Yet birds do flock, ravens, wren.
From The Forest comes a page,
A piece of perfect paper,
That The Child fills with rage,
And releases it like vapor.
From tears of children, our little ones,
Does beauty spring, in bounds and flows,
From skies to moons, planets and suns,
From tears of children, The Forest grows.
Adding your comment:
thank you again for your kind words. 
14 old applause
