Her snowcap dress disappears,
as forest on compass interferes.
She can not be azimuth for escape,
why some left trail of yellow tape.
bowing usher points on with blighted limb,
retching out its own hemlock gin.
path in is beaten, with log and stone,
crevices drown a webbed saliva moan.
path out is unbeaten and hard to find,
from death's brambles on the mind.
All trees seem to want to die,
no effort to brush off strangling vine.
where you think they have broke loose,
swaying ropes that once had noose.
And where there is light, is mossy glen,
just enough, for one last note to pen.
dolls, cloths, skulls make up forest litter,
shoes, bottles, and smiling family picture.
With the only surviving sounds so faint and sickly,
Scraping nylon tent--a starving man on day sixty.
The songbirds break the silence,
A cruel happy tune,
They see dark doom in ultraviolet,
the panicked slit wrists and poison diet,
create failed trails ,
that don't escape and help to hide it.
"The wood line, I made it out"--the cruelest thought,
Mount Fuji's white dress through the trees up top ,
They see themselves smiling,
It is, and it is not,
a happy photo,
identifying their skulls stained green by moss.
