Now that I have entered
a new kind of wilderness,
the road I told myself to follow
is no longer made out of bricks.
butterflies can’t be trusted,
nor can the whispering ghosts or
beaming Lampyridae that keep me company.
Soaked and lonely
I lie underneath the chattering leaves.
The branches stroking my hair
while I grow underneath the trees.
And as i call for an echo,
the jungle howls back.
I watched the documentary “A New kind of Wilderness” which inspired me to write something about growing up and leaving known soil behind.