within a dark wood, no sound could be heard,
no rustle or leaf, nor chorus of bird.
though through thickets of thorn, and tangle of vine,
a traveller long lost, settled down by a pine.

it was then that the trees, and brambles beneath,
twisted their branches and made him his wreath.
a crown of late thorns, to place on his head,
by the exact moment, in which he was dead.

the traveller had wandered, for days through this grove,
mistook it for where there'd been buried a trove.
many had done so, the young and the old,
naïve in their search, for fairy-tale gold.

asleep on the fallen, both leaves and past men,
our traveller breathed once, then no more than ten.
his lungs filled with scarlet, his blood running thick,
from poisons and toxins of berries he'd picked.

as night came to banish, the warmth of the sun,
his corpse slowly stiffened, decay then begun.
what of his soul, his spirit, you wonder?
encased by his bones, shall never float yonder.

no other remembers, this story I've told,
long lost in myth and legends of old.
his death was not pleasant, nor lacking in strife,
it felt oh so sweet, to steal that man's life.

for I was the wood, that he'd set eyes upon,
to plunder and pillage, and lay his hands on.
but blind from desire, for coffers of gold,
the man did not witness, his follies unfold.

my treasure's not buried, but strewn all around,
if only one glances, to see nature abound.
the man had such fortune, in the palm of his hand,
but thought nothing of it, of cherished wood-land.

although he still lies here, enveloped in moss,
his death is not tragic, don't mourn for this loss.
a traveller he was, perhaps you are too,
but his soul was crook'd, his values askew.

oh yes he was selfish, and now he is mine,
his body 's held tight, for my roots to enshrine.
the lesson dear reader, I ask you to heed,
is that misfortune awaits, all men filled with greed.