Le Drizzle Aleaf

The enchanted forest Of Le Drizzle Aleaf, Where trees become giants And the roots become feet, And the sky is distorted By foliage sheets Overlapping in rhythmic Melody with the breeze. And the trees, oh the trees A vastness to see, Abundant in creation Coloured green with envy, And the ground Decomposing; A few metres deep Begs for the sunlight, But settles; uneasy. 'Twas a wretched old soul Who dwelled far deep inside Of Le Drizzle Aleaf; He'd seen too many die. Whether it be the thistles On the traps for the flies, Or expansions of bees Expelled from beehives. And the creatures that tickled Your feet's undersides Inflicting inflictions Not quite so benign; With claws and stingers Antennas and horns, And manifestations Of evil withdrawn From repugnant extents of Le Drizzle Aleaf. The nights cold embrace Did not stray from the morn. And on and on and on and on The old man existed An existence forlorn. The sunlight; he missed it, And like men before He died many deaths On the damp forest floor. But not did he die Merely not did he live; The greatest of whimsy Ripped straight from his limbs Until at last he stood there Revoked of one thing, That made being worth doing; A soul to dwell in. So die, die, he spoke as he lived, A ghost of the forest His patience too spent, And all day and all night He chanted for the madness To end. Jaxon Pollard 21/4/15