The Wizard Who Left The World

The Wizard Who Left The World

He walked alone where the sky met stone,

each step measured, each breath deliberate.

The spellbooks closed like patient sentinels,

as if guarding what should never be disturbed.

His eyes held storms that never touched the land,

and hands that had shaped what others only dreamed.

Time was a river he could not cross twice,

and yet he lingered at its impossible edge.

Villagers spoke his name in hushed tones,

half in reverence, half in fear.

He offered no guidance, no grand promises,

only a presence that weighed heavier than gold.

Night wrapped around him like a familiar cloak,

and stars seemed to bend toward his will.

He knew loss as intimately as power,

and chose restraint where others chose recklessness.

He moved through forests that remembered

the passing of all who dared the dark.

Magic was not in light or flame,

but in knowing when to step aside.

The wind carried stories of vanished cities,

and rivers remembered the touch of his hand.

Death was no enemy, only a teacher,

and patience the hardest lesson of all.

When he vanished, the earth kept quiet,

not mourning, only recognising change.

Some power is the strength to leave,

and some journeys are meant to be unseen.

The world continued, unaware of his leaving,

but those who felt it still spoke in shadows.

A wizard never returns the same,

and the earth remembers the ones who do not.