Electric Forest
There’s no trail ahead of me—
so how do I keep finding my way,
or is that a lie
I’m told in organic Morse coding.
Do I see a face I know just up ahead,
or are the fireflies playing
with my lack of sleep.
I think I hear my name again—
or maybe that’s the forest saying danger,
am I—
or in?
I can’t change now where I am,
just like these ancient roots.
I know I’m as foreign as electricity.
I’m not looking to ruin you—
but maybe you can save me.
The Forest Speaks
You always come asking.
For peace, for mercy, for meaning.
But your hands—your hands never arrive empty.
You scorch my skin to light your candles,
then cry when the smoke stings your eyes.
You call yourselves creators,
but every poem you write bleeds sap from me.
(A pause—wind trembles, leaves hush.)
Still… you listen now.
You’re quiet, for once.
Maybe that is the start of saving.
Not yours. Not mine.
Just the sound of breathing without burning.
The Traveler
That’s the way—
give and take, take and kill,
run away, make a mistake.
I wonder if right now,
in this calm connection with you,
is this enlightenment—
or is this what they call heaven?
The Forest Answers
The wind begins its slow confession.
Branches bend but do not bow.
Light slips between the leaves,
changing patterns faster than thought—
a choreography of forgiveness without a name.
The forest dances,
and for once, nothing burns.
The air hums—not with power,
but with peace trying on its own skin.
The Traveler
And all at once
it all was found,
but it was never lost.
It was always…
There
