The lamps are low, a bruised twilight bleeds,
Across the pane where the rain still pleads.
Each drop a sigh on the dusty glass,
Watching the moments slowly pass.
A whisper soft on the chilling breeze,
Rustling secrets through the skeletal trees.
The path unwinds, a ribbon of stone,
Leading me deeper, further alone.
Each twisted branch, a reaching hand,
Grasping for something I can't understand.
The air grows thick with a damp perfume,
Sealing my fate in this gathering gloom.
And I walk alone in this fading light,
Where shadows stretch and swallow the white.
A phantom limb of a memory's call,
Echoing softly beyond the wall.
Is it real, this shape in the grey?
Or just the forest stealing my day?
A flicker there, behind the dense wood,
A fragile hope, misunderstood?
Or just the moon, a sliver so thin,
Mocking the darkness that dwells within?
And I walk alone in this fading light,
Where shadows stretch and swallow the white.
A phantom limb of a memory's call,
Echoing softly beyond the wall.
Is it real, this shape in the grey?
Or just the forest stealing my day?
The forest breathes, a silent sigh,
As the last of the colors begin to die.
And I am lost, and I cannot see,
If the forest is holding onto me.
Holding onto me...
Holding onto me...
