from under these ancient roots the darkness of night is held. vultures shiver beneath the soaking branches. a cold moon stark against nights canvass. thick moss and earth-ridden ornaments bathe in this imperial waste. the groans of a spent wind summon us from our dreams. eyes lucid. recounting our loss. floating minds comprehending the damage of time and the slow passing of hopes.
with this sodden pasture secure beneath me I shall wander forwards. blindness only captivates my abilities, not my destiny. further forward into the deep blackness of hills and forests and rivers and gorges. the onward plight. reaching out for a reason to not continue.
let this moss, this stream, these leaves, this heaven, this purgatory wash over me in the hope that I awaken
No comments:
Post a Comment