It was that kind of forest that gave you the feeling
That someone or something was watching you,
So we dropped little balls of tin foil to mark the path we were taking,
To find our way back through the eerie fog,
Through the dense canopy of shifting leaves,

The air was cold and ancient,
As though stepping into discovery,
An archaeological find,
Like some pharonic tomb,
Containing air of millennia
Long since passed away,

And we, too, feared to breathe in this ghostly wood,
As we tiptoed above the sighing carpet
Of crumpled, fallen foliage,
The remnants of what were living things,
Now dead,
Limbs broken, bodies shaken,
Statues of defeat,

Our little legs were awakened,
By the distant moaning,
Of wind or spirit,
And we were carried home,
Without the need of tin foil trails,
By the beaten path of panic in our
Adventuresome little hearts.