Into the Meadows

A Poem by Cynical

Depression's shadow, riddled with deceivance that appears sincere.

Deep into the forest there lies a figure,
A man with remorse, but something to trigger,

I've been here before, I think I'm still there,
He whispers silently, and combs through my hair,

Words of better days he says are coming my way,
If only it were possible for you to stay,

For I'd never treat you as husk as they,
We'd be two in one, you need not to pray,

He says I'll be safe by his side,
But I've suspected he's fueled by pride,

Perhaps because he's taken so many,
And left them in cloaked voices with but a penny,

I want to go but I've enveloped fear,
So much that I can't follow up with a single tear,

I hear these voices telling me so,
To let this man take you and feel the wind blow,

As my body is to numb,
I am to feel the sudden thrum,

My heartbeat steadily fading,
No sense in single handedly evading,

His promises are as they appear,
Elevated by a softness so sincere,

Before a hand presses softly against my chest,
Instilling a coolness that sought to possess,

He was taking me somewhere he described quaintly,
It's something you'll love but with a cost quite faintly,

So I ask where are we to go?
He answers with a sense of oddity in flow,

"Into the Meadows is where we'll be, and I've yet to promise you you've been set free."