Feet touch soil
so silent
but still sound.
Vines and trying times
creep and grow
around his weary ankles
and up his legs
anchoring him back to dust.
He waits in hope
that roses will grow
a crown upon his head.

His eyes are closed now:
he is expansive in his mind only;
at peace down those ten steps
into his own little Paradise.

Rest, now, breathe.