In the forest where no stars gleam,
Lurks a shadow-born, silent dream.
Beneath the boughs where whispers grow,
The cursed lullaby starts to flow.
It drifts on winds, soft and light,
A song of woe in the heart of night.
The trees lean close, their branches bare,
Each note threading through the heavy air.
“Come to me,” the song entices,
A voice as sweet as honeyed spices.
Yet woven in its silken tune,
Lies the wail of a broken moon.
The path ahead seems paved in gold,
Yet feels as though it’s centuries old.
The air grows thick, the night turns still,
As unseen hands bend your will.
A clearing blooms in shadowed grace,
With ivy cloaking a crumbled face.
A statue weeps its tears of stone,
Guarding secrets long overthrown.
The lullaby fades, now clear, now dim,
A ghostly choir begins its hymn.
They sing of souls once led astray,
Lured by the song, now lost in decay.
You try to turn, your feet betray,
Each step ahead eats night from day.
The forest shifts, its roots alive,
Its hunger vast, none can survive.
At the center, a figure waits,
Clad in shadows that twist like gates.
Its voice, the song that pulled you near,
Its eyes, the abyss of primal fear.
“You’ve come at last,” it softly sighs,
“A soul to claim beneath these skies.”
You try to scream, the sound won’t break,
Your shadow stolen, your soul its stake.
The lullaby hums, soft and sweet,
As others are drawn by unseen feet.
And so it goes, the forest’s feast,
A haunting tune sung by the beast.
So heed this warning, travelers bold:
Don’t chase the song where tales are told.
For in the forest where no stars gleam,
You’ll lose yourself to the shadow’s dream.