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.
Share this post
The Forest Passage
Share this post
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.