In a forest long forgotten,
Where the light does not shine down,
From below the world is illumined,
Between black pillars of trees with no crown.
Stagnant is the mist, thick and green,
Dormant air, Wind never sought to clean.
Tiny feet patter somewhere in the mud.
Amber eyes dance in darkness before the thud,
As heavy limbs awaken after slumber;
Far too near a voice rumbles like thunder.
'Who walks this path of the dead?
Your presence like old skin I shall shed.'
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