I creep through ancient forests,
decrepit, abandoned- nearly destroyed.
A dense fog lay beneath my shins,
I cannot see the forest floors.
Only a smoky grey ocean,
an unearthly mystic haze.
The morning barely sung,
newborn to a day of solitude.
Creatures nest, flourishing
where I cannot see but I can hear.
Now as dreams have clouded,
this morning is full of realists.
I hear crisp of leaves below
bare feet scratching the palms,
my toes reach hesitant for stepping.
I pull away from some hanging bones
and through the branches
I peek the rest of the world.
With a snake-lake gaze,
I see there [still] lays a strange
beauty in this wasteland,
something worth saving.