In the forest, dark and dreary,
Roderick wanders, lost and weary.
No friend to call, no hand to hold,
A quiet heart alone and cold.
His body, wrapped in fur so black,
A tangled mane draped down his back.
With emerald eyes to pierce the night,
That hide a soul in frozen fright.
Through twisted groves and tangled trees,
Dim voices murmur through the breeze.
Skulls moan and wail in ghost-like swells,
That emanate from hollow shells.
“Roderick, Roderick, soon you’ll be,
Dead like us, you’ll surely see!”
Their hollow laughter curls like smoke,
A cruel embrace that starts to choke.
He shouts, he howls, he shakes his head,
“I’ll not be like you – never dead!”
Yet in the stillness, deep inside,
He knows their echoes do not lie.
He runs, he rages, stamps the ground,
Yet still they murmur, all around.
His breath runs short, his body aches,
Then silence is his choice to make.
He shuts his eyes, accepts the night,
A moment’s pause to drop the fight.
The voices blend with rustling leaves,
Like whispers sung through ancient trees.
The wailing calls begin to fade,
No jeers nor threats, just calm remains
No more warnings, no more nightmares,
A soothing sound now fills the air.
Roderick breathes with the earth and sky,
No need to run, no need to hide.
The skulls don’t haunt – they echo songs;
A forest hymn, where he belongs.
