Withered.

Roots and vines grow through her,
Her mind has been here far too long.
Searching for some pacification,
In a world she does not belong.

In the insects she finds comfort,
And the leaves weave through her hair.
Her face lies under foliage,
But she no longer requires air.

Beneath the dirt she is shapeless,
The cold satisfies her placid skin.
Away from life's bombardment.
Away from the howling wind.

The forest smells decayed,
The nights grow so cold.
She tastes autumn on her tongue,
Like a history left untold.