I am from the far place of shadows and quiet desperation, hiding inside layers of old wordstacks that litter these grey and thistled fields.
The wind, an eerie falsetto, wails in accents lost to all but the half-living, calling me out into the thick and sorry night. But I don’t mind darkness any more — what use is light if I cannot see his smile?
Savage storms blend into my grief with ease, leaving no trace, yet oceans rise from a single tear on the swell of all those tomorrows, gaping voids, chasms of fear, with only the writing of me to show me I am real.
The sun is gone and what once was precious is now dust. From this dust I spin stanzas that ache with the burdens of the lost, and tie grief-laden raindrops into knots that lie here beside me, piled up.
Over the poem comes the sound of a drum, yet the beat means nothing, nothing at all, mere counterpoint to the creak of a worn soul buckling before the final snap. Never, never was a life so long and so damned.
I run and my foosteps are light, but the very fall of them makes the grass bleed and the flowers shrivel to skeletal stumps. Round and round the wordstacks I go, charting the course of a life once lived, now lost.
I am from the far place of shadows and quiet desperation, no escape, no redemption, so I crawl back to hide within the confines of this poem. Where else is there to go?