Coming softly, the sound of feet.
Ever closer, to me they’ll meet.
Softly thudding, sound dampened by the earth.
Coming closer, I will near my time of birth.
Walking on, head held high.
Drawing near, my death is nigh.
Stepping through, my body ripped and torn.
Shattered silently, my mind is scorned.
Slowly sinking, I seep into the green things.
Lilting gently, my soul light as downy wings.
Taking breaths, I feel myself take a shape from lore.
Shaking softly, I am reborn once more.
— Copyright 2012
Originally posted at Isáine’s blog, http://witchofthewyldwood.tumblr.com December 13, 2012