A thought fluttered into the path of the Waking Road, before the eye of awareness. Beckoning. Feigning the illusion of truth and the tantalizing taste of a moment’s ambrosia it started into the Thicket of the inner landscape as if to begin a race. This train of thought was not a lap-wing leading from a nest full of hidden treasure though. To give into the desire of longing for what was once would be a hunt without a victor; the only prize would be the fatigue and aches accumulated during the chase.
Instead of running until the knees buckled and suffering overwhelmed the heart vessel, the notion was allowed to dissipate without having been weaved into the fabric of fate.
There will always be change and transience in life and if the Witch makes their cottage in the brush of what is lost the house will be painted in tears. There is a choice though and the Witch focused upon the brew currently simmering in the hearth will find they are surrounded by the wonders of their Craft and with a potion that will fill every hunger.
“Lost in a thicket bare-foot upon a thorned path.”