Too late

When you get lost like that, you think maybe after a very long while you should call for help. The night sets in with those cold steps and someone's behind you, matching your pace you run.
Breathing comes out in icy puffs the whole world is blue
and you don't see anyone coming to save you.
When you get lost like that you start to imagine all the things you could tell people, and all the lovely, caring reactions you might get. They might ask you how you suffered for so long, so tough. Or if you need them to stay up with you all night. Are you still afraid, they might wonder.
When you're so lost and there's dirt under you nails. Or maybe it's blood, but either way it's filthy like the woods and the dirt paths you're walking. Like the soil that's sinking, and you're drowning. But that's wrong, because drowning would indeed imply that you were fighting in some very small effort. A kick, a scream, even the realization of your metal lungs being heated by dragon's fire as they cave in from trying to be less empty.
At this point it's just numb sinking, a sad acceptance of the fact that you're going under. But hardly sad at all anymore because that was last year's pain.
This year...or has it been longer? Either way there is only fear. That stark, rigid bite on your neck but you can't turn around. For some reason you're stuck in the childish belief that if you can't see it it can't see you.
The same reason you don't look over your shoulder when running up the basement stairs.

You're thinking of all the wonderful things people might console you with if you were to ever get out. And that's pathetic. One hundred percent, of course. But when you're dying you do like to think of all the moments you could have lived.
There's the owls, such lonely sounds at night, with the wolves howling loudly. And that's your sorrow echoing from the pain you can't seem to feel.

But maybe I shouldn't be saying you. Maybe, in reality, I should be saying me. Maybe no one else will ever think this, these thoughts. But I'd like to think that no matter how big the labyrinthine, with it's winding trees and paths that lead you in circles...no matter how big it is, or how small, there are others scattered around in there, somewhere.
Maybe I'm not alone in here. And even if there isn't a chance for me to ever find someone...

Even if it would take a million years I don't have, there is that small hope that I could.

Even if it's impossible, hope keeps you going.
And when you're sinking, it is rather nice to believe things could have gone better. It's sweet and mellow to think that your fate wasn't this sod-fucking-terrible.

That you did have a chance, at some point.

But now no one's listening and I guess it's too late.