Sad Poetry

Lost

There’s a gentle breeze blowing
Rustling the leaves
Casting shifting shadows on the forest floor.
In the glen, a lone figure sits
Waiting, always waiting
For something, someone who never comes.

The wood sprites watch
Feeling the radiating sadness
Alas, nothing they can do
Untouchable, unapproachable, unloved.
It would take nearly nothing
A glance
A kind word
A touch of the hand
But none are forthcoming.

Time passes – days, months, years
And still, always alone.
A fixture now
Walking through the wood
As much a ghost as those already dead.