Last Gift to the Brook

I dragged my weary bones
To the whispering edge of the brook
Where waters mirrors the sky
And earth embraces the dying ones
My blood slips into the stream
A crimson ribbon unspooling slow
My final gift to the currents that
Once carried my childhood home

The forest closes in around me
Standing still in patient silence
A heron moves through the reeds
Its solemn eye tracing my pulse
Insects rest upon my skin
Reclaiming an abandoned relic
And even the cold water pauses
Unsure to soothe or swallow me

I see now how the modern world
Drained the marrow from my spirit
How iron towers and hollow voices
Taught me to numb what once was sacred
Made me forget the taste of rain
And call this emptiness a life I chose
I learned to wear my wounds as purpose
And named my quiet despair as meaning

The brook accepts my offering
With neither judgment nor mercy
Only the ancient pulse of the wild
That takes as gently as it gives

If the world remembers me
Let it be a fleeting stain
A red prayer swallowed by time
No grand legacy, no final cry
Only a man who found peace
In the un-making of himself
Leaving one last offering
To the brook that watched him fade