Journey of Souls to the Void

On the ones who come when it is time

When the time comes, the Father arrives first.

Silent as the hush before dawn, he moves like a shadow through the soul — unfastening it from the weight of flesh. There is no pain. Only the quiet drifting of something once tethered.

But the Mother lingers longer.

She walks the fields, fingertips grazing the tall grass, listening to the earth's breath. She does not rush. She waits until the bones grow light with time, until the world has forgotten their name. Then, with hands gentle as falling leaves, she gathers them into her arms.

I do not fear her. Nor him.

The world spins heavy with its own sorrows — but I do not carry them. I hold onto hope instead. The dream of soft earth, of silence, of life forgiven.