I walked down a corridor dimly lit by candle sticks.
Its white, whispering walls wore slanted paintings;
All oddly ordered, each suggesting stories.
I sauntered for a while, experiencing all the art.
My pace quickened with each painting;
Till I was panting, racing in the dark.
This went on for a bit till I no longer felt alarmed.
Time escaped my mind, and I began to feel a part;
A part of every painting, then I realized that I was.
I stopped the mindless movement.
I watched the works and waited.
Contemplation construed a shadow self;
And I fathomed that the paintings were what fate is.
The oddly ordered paintings did suggest some stories.
But rather, not in plural; they stored the story of my life.
I saw its paths per my decisions, how I might choose and why.
And very single section ended (under flowers),
with worms around my spine.
I realized this and sighed, opened my eyes and saw the light.
I thanked God to be alive, then thanked the fungus to my right.