The Forest Passage

The forest passage beckons to me: dark
And green with damp fecundity and rot.
No tinder here will hold a living spark; 
The only warming fire is one I've brought.
Sepulchral lichen hangs from drooping trees,
Their blackened trunks obscured by shaggy moss.
The path is made for struggle, void of ease.
A forge of iron to separate the dross.
I know not where the misty trail will wind:
Above the tree line to transcendent heights,
Or to a hidden valley where, confined,
Dwell ever soporific nymphs and sprites?
I journey forward, into fog, to find
What fate for me does spin and weave and bind.