Whispering Woods

Smoke rises to the tips of our canopies, 

The familiar feeling of peace lost in a blink, 

Gloom spreads across our rustic woods,

Drowning out the sound of our birds, 

Slowly coating us with ash and fog as we creek like an old floorboard,

Begging for our forest back,

But alas, we are forgotten 

Our trees are now few, 

Our bushes are burdened with a black hue, 

The ink infects our veins, seeping through our roots,

Our blood runs cold, 

Our sap dries, 

Our bark peels, 

We are forever bound to the confines of the past, 

A distant memory for the future,

But we will not be forgotten again.