Walking through the forest
With crackling of pulpous twigs
My conscience no longer dictates
My soles have no path.
The breeze flows with composure
Rustling the above canopy
It sweeps through my hair
Telling my shoes where to go.
The trickling of a stream
The sound of which grows louder with each step
Becomes my focus
A magnetic attraction of my inner compass.
The path heavily overgrown
No foot ever pass but of the paw
I encounter my destination
A hidden waterfall ...