Brown leaves skittered across my path,
Mere ghosts of what they had once been
And as I crossed the grey wasteland,
My heart began to sink with the setting sun.

I sought to find an answer that I had no question for,
And so, being restless, traversed the great outdoors.
The road was often tread and
I knew it all too well to bother treading slowly,
But as I crossed the bridge so cold,
The waters of the ever stubborn river called to me
And I saw a footpath, before unseen,
Surely made by the faeries.
The blood within me, blood of warriors long ago,
Stirred and I left the road behind,
Meandering down the faery path
Beside the lazy brown waters.

Bubbling and foaming in the crevices,
Gently rolling over intrusive stones,
The waters babbled their nonsense,
As they always had, and I wondered
What secrets they knew,
What they had been silent witness to,
And my heart beat a single throb of longing;
If only I knew how to listen as my ancestors had,
Before the world grew so loud.

Beneath the murky depths lay mossy figures,
Forgotten and not at all mourned,
The trees who hadn’t been strong enough and
Could only gaze at the ever changing sky,
The sky they could no longer reach
Up to with patient, graceful limbs
And still, they did not mourn for
Themselves as I did; they shed not one tear
While I had shed enough tears to refill the river,
Should it ever dry up.

Pondering, I continued down the faery path,
Sensing the sacredness that I dared to invade,
Yet I had no ill intent and perhaps this place knew,
For it soon felt like returning home.
Undefined and yet my feet did not falter
In finding a foothold along the path
Among the trees still tall, steadily waving
In the chilling breeze, like skeletons.

Yet they were alive in the desolate cold
And remained hopeful of Spring’s return.
Melancholy filled me as I saw that even
The trees were more at peace than I
But I continued on, sunken heart still
Blindly believing the sun would rise again.

And there, a monument long
Forgotten yet still proclaiming in defiance
Though the rest of the place lay in ruins
And was overrun with mossy decay.
What warrior set this here, I wondered,
But the river held its’ knowledge close
And the monument made no reply,
Though I knew it had some purpose.
Yet that was it, I saw, circling
Around the crumbling sculpture.

For all that Man did, Time would patiently
Wait and then erase, without fanfare,
Relentless, for Time knew that Man is a
Brief little creature, so desperate to not be forgotten;
But somehow, the monument of remembrance,
Once alive, is now nothing more
Than cold moss covered stones on the verge
Of falling into secretive waters
Where obscurity would then rule,
Defying the valiant, yet foolhardy attempt.

Stones and carved letters would fade,
Bones decaying even faster
And how much effort wasted then,
When all that time could
Have been spent making memories,
Planting oneself in others
So that even after death, one lives on
Every time one speaks or thinks of you;
And good, fond memories, not known
For bitterness or regretful sighs.

Full circle as I reached the bridge again,
Though it was not so cold now.
My heart had found its’ reply; and now,
To fall into the dark chasm of despair
Or be renewed in purpose of soul,
To make the most of every fleeting moment?