12

Do not go walking idly through the forests of the past,
least not without your armour,
And even then, but fast,
for nothing tempts and causes yearnings, opens yawning wounds,
like running headlong into briars,
branches, and the gloom.

Foolhardy lads engage these copses,
armed with sword and spear,
boasting of their bravery, scoffing those who fear, to walk and wander paths of old, to pry into the past,
their mocking voices fade away,
and rarely ever last.

For nothing is as pois'nous, 
there is no other threat,
of heart and soul and all within,
like our own regret.
It starts as but an idle vine sliding 'cross your foot, then others follow,
twisting, snarling, till at last your hooked.

They prise apart your armor, weaving round your ribs, tightening with a fervent ardor, choking will to live. You quickly drop your weapons, struggle to get loose, but sickness drowns those feeble 'tempts to slacken up your noose.

They strum your heart, the strings inside, and every lazy flick,
knicks like razors, nauseates, and cuts you to the quick.

You cease your fighting, so begins the never-ending hounding,
of loves you lost, or overlooked, 
the clarity's astounding,
every moment that you would,
repeat, or do again,
washes over, soaks you through,
flays your very skin.

And if you cannot find a way to break the thrall you've started,
the vines will flourish mightily,
and you my friend, will harden,
Until one day, it is too much,
and with a final crack,
you're branches sway back into place, 
and you cannot go back.

You'll stand forever, canopied, inside that darkened wood,
sentinel, and honor guard,
dark tree where you once stood,
whispering your final words,
If only...If only.