I dispatched my poem, a suave projectile on a precise trajectory

I dispatched my poem, a suave projectile on a precise trajectory, Through the vast azure, through the unwritten infinity unfolding its mysteries, Do not dare to await me, for my path is a float in the boundless, You do not know if the verse will strike the heart, or disperse into the millions of parallel universes. I shall stand, yes, I will pause to rest under the wise alder trees, With waxy leaves, kissed by a doe’s bitter tear, The animals of the forest nourish their young with the tangy milk of pain, While I ponder how my poetry is a ship adrift in another dimension. Do not tire yourselves with thoughts of my arrival, the path is a labyrinth of maybes, The leaf-rustling of life turns abruptly, with sandwiches carried by wandering fates, Perhaps you will be gripped by longing, perhaps in the woods where the sun yields its communal end, There, a lone stag murmurs grunts, like a vestige of my being that was once conceived. If it may be, seize a moment thus slipped through the fingers of time, And crush, with the memory of longing, the alder leaf that found a home on the shoulder of your anticipation, Let its scent intertwine in the whirl of thought, of yearning, of that which was and whispers no more, My poetry, without me, an echo leaning against the hidden wall of your soul - it begs.