Beyond the mountain pass
Lies a trail bathed
In milky starlight. Mossy trees
Hold the road
With gnarled hands
Clothed in silver
And green. Pretty, pink
Flowers bloom at your feet.
Their soft scent
Tickles your tongue. You
Taste neither lilac
Nor lily. Death
Coats every fleshy bud.
You hurry
Your pace. Flowers fade
As all things do. Stars flicker
And fall. In darkness,
You come to the end.
A stone-faced statue
Greets you
With worn lips
And weary eyes. You squint
And see the cold countenance
Is yours.
Turn back!
But the way is shadow
And all around
Flames sizzle atop
Obsidian candles. One
By one, the fires sputter
And sigh
Until all is black,
All is cold,
All is dead.
He Who Wanders 