The Child in the Dark Forest

A child lost in a dark forest.

No stars above, no path below.

The air thick with the scent of damp earth,

and the echo of something unseen breathing slow.

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The trees are tall and ancient,

Their bark cracked like the faces of time.

They lean close, whispering secrets,

Their words dripping like rain down the spine.

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The child holds silence in trembling hands,

listening for the world beyond the dark.

A branch breaks, a heartbeat stumbles,

fear blooms where light does not.

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The moon hides behind its shroud of cloud,

a pale ghost that will not guide.

The forest hums with unseen life,

each sound a test of trust, of courage, of will to stay alive.

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The path forks, but neither side speaks truth.

Every shadow looks like home.

Every flicker of light could be safety,

or the eyes of what waits to be known.

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A torn ribbon clings to a low branch,

a mark from the world before.

A memory of laughter, of warmth,

now fading under cold breath and dirt.

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The child calls out, voice cracked and thin,

the forest swallows the name whole.

No echo returns, only the rustle of leaves

and the creak of something moving slow.

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Time bends here, soft and cruel.

Minutes stretch into miles.

The child’s small footprints fill with rain,

then vanish as if they never were.

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Yet, through the dark, a rhythm remains—

a heartbeat, a promise, a pull.

Somewhere beyond the veil of trees,

a mother’s voice hums a lullaby half-remembered.

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The child turns toward the sound,

eyes wide, unblinking, afraid to hope.

Light flickers between the trunks,

faint, trembling, almost gone.

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They step forward.

Branches open, whispering softer now.

The air tastes less of fear.

The forest breathes again.

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And though the dark still stretches on,

and the path remains unknown,

the child walks, no longer lost,

carrying the memory of light within the dark.

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