I Have to Go

When you stand in the middle
Of the road I'm thinking of,
You think of the disappeared.
However many they were,
Each one went away alone,
And it's doubtful anyone
Joined up together later.

As you see, the road bisects
The available landscape
Neatly as a boundary
Or an arithmetic line
Indicating ratio,
Difference, and long division,
But either side looks the same:

Dense, coniferous forest,
Pointed, dark, indifferent,
And appearing to swallow
The parallels of the road
At both ends in the distance,
Monotonous to your eyes.
Is this when you disappear?

You could already be gone.
You don't remember yourself,
But you see you are alone.
It occurs to you you can't
Remember how you came here,
But it doesn't trouble you.
You smile, thinking the living

Believe the ability
To recollect one's lost life,
At least the good parts of it,
Should be considered a boon,
That nothing is so welcome
In death as imitation
And recollection of life.

Does this mean you aren't living?
Then how could anything mean?
The landscape makes no reply.
You start walking down the road.
The sun is apparently
Straight overhead, behind clouds.
You don't see any shadows.

The density of the trees
That hem you in comforts you.
At some point you'll enter them,
You think, maybe, but not yet.
You hardly feel you're walking.
You're glad of a little rain.
All you ever are was this.