The leaf and loam give way beneath his silent gait, the forest edge before him, his life’s mistakes behind. A slip of breath escapes his lips in a moment paused, but he must continue. As lace-like mists entwine the lofty bows, he reaches out to brush aside the leaves that never reach his face. The forest parts around him, from him and for him, so he too may reach the secret.
He is enfolded within the ancient columns of wood and stone, those monuments so fittingly adorned with the sadness of Time’s green brush, and he sees he is near to the source of this sorrowed call.
The temple of solitude stands in wooded decline, its fate as forgotten as the ones who raised it.
There, struck in stone of eons past, stands the doorway .
Dark is the way forward, for the future is always unknown.
His dissolved past recedes into the branch and thorn.
Reaching out his hand, he succumbs to the beckoning of the shade, and like all who chose the immemorial path, reclaims his soul at life’s expense.