The Guiding

I'm lost.
In my thoughts.
In this forest.
The wind grapples at my loose hair,
The ends spinning viciously in the balmy summer air.
They call it the poem forest,
A tree for a poem.
I call it the end.
The last of the trees,
The last of ever-dying beauty that stirs in the breeze.
Then I'm there.
At the edge.
Nothing but an abyss of rocks and thoughts in my mind.
Darkness consumes me, yet the sun still turns me temporarily blind.
I lie there,
Taking in what's left,
The breeze turns into a wind so strong,
That my eyes close under its heft.
And then it's gone.
And I'm no longer lost.