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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Of evil withdrawn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

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