In Regret

Though I bear this map, I feel more lost than ever.  I found myself when I was not guided, and I’m striving to cling to that which was – despite treading in the very opposite direction.  I am incarcerated by that which I have lost, and that which I cannot find.  I am enervated by this search, encumbered by the load I bear, arrested by the shadows and pitfalls which strew my treacherous path.  Wary I tread, preyed upon by doubt, as glimmers of crimson and grey shift through the wilderness.  I falter, haunted still by yearning and regret and apathy, pursuing the trail imperilled only by shades and vapours, yet hallowed by the ease of logistics, interspersed with an abundance of still fountains and acerbic berries.  I stride forward, yet I am motionless.  For this path is already hewn.  I walk towards this destination, yet I know it is not home.

In pursuit, I stray.  In treading thus, I flee.  In persistence, I surrender.

Though guided, I am lost.  It is not courage, but fear, which impels me.

Sing the Sorrow

Though these flames were not ignited by me, I continue to retrieve kindling from the woods.  I surrender myself to their throes.  Though I did not incite this war, I still vainly brandish my blade at ghosts.  The clash of steel perpetuates still the song which deafens me.  This fire was the furnace which tempered these manacles – yet I forged them therein, and bound them upon myself.

The maelstroms submerged me, and cast me to this perdition – yet I crafted and steered the vessel, and chose my crew.  My own imperfection damns me here.  I suffer because I deserve nothing more.  I am a shadow framed by the light because I will not bear my own torch, and blaze a way through the abyss – because I will not stray beyond the confines of this map, which guides me along my cyclical, directionless path. My abjection is my own.

I define myself by the absence of meaning.

Sunbather

I’m not sure I’m anything beyond need, without desire – a pyre ignited by the deathless, which smoulders still in blackness, as if deprived of kindling.  I’m not sure I’m anything beyond this oblivion.

I remember once what it was to be enchanted, bereft of necromancy.  Imprisoned in this necropolis, I remember the dew which glimmered upon verdant, lush fields.  I watched the dawn rise in awe, as it ignited the sky in interweaving streaks of orange and red, and spiralling coils of pink.  I sunbathed upon an iridescent tapestry of flowers, dappled by the glow of the aurora.  Bedevilled not by history, I dreamt of the infinite grandeur of the future.  I savoured the taste of the crisp, fresh air, and the fragrance of the grass, and the rustling of waterfalls as they flowed forth over the rocks and glimmered in the light. I gazed upon halcyons as they soared and glided about the heavens, cradled by the wanderings of the wind, unbridled in their flight.

I watch now, as crows circle these ruins – their wings clipped by squall, and their feathers seared away by fire.  I remember the resplendence of clear skies, as I look upon the grey of smoke and cloud and dusk.

I remember hearkening to the chorus, and knowing every word – though I had never before heard the song.  I thought neither of the cadence, nor the echoes – not of its pitch, nor its timbre.  I simply sung, entranced by this rhythm.  I screamed, and shouted, and chanted, as if no one was listening.

Rough Hands

I’m not sure I’m ready to swim against these currents alone, relinquishing these pieces and my company of demons.  I would not brave these uncharted waters, only to flounder amidst their turbulence, and be swept forth to a perpetuity of shade – for I could not resist the wrath of these waves. There is safety, in this bludgeoned fortress; comfort, in the persecutions of the light.  I’m not sure I’m ready to sheathe this sword.  I fear liberation.  I fear joy, ever more than I fear sorrow.  I fear peace, ever more than battle.

I’m not sure I can breathe without this smoke and brimstone.  I’m not sure I can extinguish the infernos which consume me still.  I’m not sure I can live without these ghosts.  I’m nothing beyond that which I am not.  I’m nothing beyond that which I was.  I’m nothing beyond that which I cannot be.  I’m not sure there’s an antidote for this malady.  I’m not sure there’s a song beyond these storms, or an orchestration lost amidst its cacophony.  I’m not sure I’m anything beyond charred flesh, and a thirst sated, unquenched, by salt water.  I’m not sure infernos or hallowed water can purge the venom of these wounds.  I’m not sure if these stars will ever glimmer as bright as they once did.

I think all that’s left is a memory, like an autumnal petal, leached of colour, scattered upon the wind – a relic of the grace of bloom, fleeing from the grasping, rough hands of a withered soul, and lost amidst the blaze.

Am I the same person?  Do I yearn to be?

Rescued

I’m not sure what these sands and ashes mean to me any more.  I’m not sure if this desiccated, blazing beach is my home, or merely a fantasy of ruin. This feels more like a besieged bastion, devoured by fire, than a safe harbour.  I’m clinging to blight, wishing for and spurning salvation. I think I fear the lulls of silence as much as the deafening tumult of war.  It’s just that….I’m not sure I can survive out at sea.  I’m not sure I would be rescued, if I were to drown.  Would anyone be there to wrest me from the depths?  Would I want there to be?  I think everyone on the shore has already forgotten me.  I think I’ve been lost at sea for so long, though I am moored upon this coastline.  I don’t think I’m worthy of deliverance.

I don’t think the darkness bound in the abyss of this ocean is any different to the light which scorches the shore.  I can barely tell the sky from the shoreline.  I’m not sure I can depart from that which forsook me long ago.  I think these delusions are my reality.

 

Coward

These seas are my destiny –

Yet they cannot be my future.

They are my salvation,

And yet they are my blight.

 

I long for the refulgence of stars,

And yet fear the shadows of the night.

I long for the symphony of song,

And yet fear the echoes.

I long for liberation,

And yet fear to wander or stray.

I long for the respite of slumber,

And yet fear the nightmares.

 

Cowardice ensnares me.

Doubt enslaves me.

Weakness enchains me.

Draining Puddles, Retrieving Treasures

Perhaps we only find true treasures when we are not searching. Perhaps I explored these depths, hoping to find Atlantis – only to forget to rise for air.  Perhaps I dreamed of this ocean’s expanse, only to realise the treasures were enshrined in the puddles at my feet.