Crimson leaves, a mockingbird.
The silent trail of afterwords.
We crossed paths at the bridge of pain.
There we parted, nothing gained.
Across, the road, with footsteps worn,
told tales of countless winters won.
But the I of then had failed to see
the truth of shadows surrounding me.
And so I came to the valley’s edge,
not one the wiser, filled with rage
for the path before me was moot.
The bridge’s poles uproot.
Down the cliff, all I found
was a sea of cloudy misty mounds.
Right there, I built a hut, for one
and waited, for the setting sun.
But neither rust, nor rabble, came to break
that shining, silver, empty, lake.
Along the edge, all day, I paced.
All day, everyday, my heart I braced.
And in more than just a million years
a bell’s chime happened to reach my ears.
I took a step. I fell through.
The darkness held me, close and true.
Warm, like blood I had rejected.
Why had I felt so dejected?
I am you. You, I am.
Not a foe. But a friend.