Withered Fade

The day comes, when the leaf meets an end— not an unusual end, but more like a beginning that knows no boundary. There comes a time when the memory fades and blends with time. Those who seek singularity in the far corners of the infinite branch, hanging deep above a darkened soil, where my tree sits in a stillness and begs for its constituents to return. And, to my surprise, even the tree meets an end. I have a collective sense of yesterday, but who knows what lurks behind the door of tomorrow? I seek nothing but an exclamation of new time, immune from all impurities of the past, and blind to a near sight. I tremble in this new position; my knees rattle in nervousness. A faith unfolds as I ring a new bell, with a tender hope that paralyzes even the stern doubters that cross my path.