I started out pessimistic, but I resolved to not condemn myself to failure in this (meta) piece. It is here that I am beginning to understand the holiness in writing.
What can knowing the secret paths of the forest do me? I alone know how twist and turn yield sacred grove, quiet pod of wooded solitude, where time reflects upon itself for endless eternities. Amanita ring where faeries dance, erratic, wild, free. Where sable stag's pride echoes from knot to trunk and eye. Where winds whisper between trees ripe and silent with sweet dew, wisdom in gospel pages of softly flowing leaves, where canopy breaks and all the world becomes dust in the night sky. The silence there, O, I heard it once.
Yes I know the way there. My legs bleed from thorny trails, I am harried by night's hunters, by shadows without number. Yes, these trails must be walked at deepest night, at the zenith of our loneliness. My smiling companion I must abandon, her shining visage cannot guide me where I go, nor offer me respite in its silver light.
My legs ache, my heart heavy with fear and bleeding from solitude. The only sound I now hear reminds me I still live in mortal flesh, the thundering timpani of my quaking heart. I have lost so much on these hidden trails.
I like how it begins. The transition when I decided to be more positive feels a little forced to me, but maybe that's what it will always have to be for me. As much as I like poetry, I think that the semi-aphoristic/poetic style is more what captures my (arrogantly) gravitas when I speak. Then again, this is just practice, I must remember that practice is not meant to be good, it is meant to be meaningful to me. I still feel my legs are too weak to reach that holy place, but that may just be today.