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.