Long is the way,
And hard
That portends a shift
From grey to green.
From green to gold.
That road slowly
Buried
Under a snow of decaying ash;
The tape underfoot
Indistinguishable
From its sodden cradle.
There is no crunch beneath my feet
And no fire in my lungs—
There is no sun here
In this sallow miasma—
Only the dying embers
Of a search once begun,
A journey once completed:
A quest unaccomplished.