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?


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.



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.

Peace In These Pieces

Sifting through these fragments I search for completion, tormented by lucid visions of all that once was.  Lost in memories, I search to find a future – I search to find myself in that which I have lost.  I remember every moment spent forging this vessel, bereft of blueprint or instruction.  I hear still the blow of the hammer, resonating in the wail of phantoms.  I see still in their hollow gazes the cowardice of thieves, as they fled in plunder – the very bandits I would have called my crew, cloaked in the guise of fellowship.  I remember still toiling with rusted, frail tools and crude materials – I remember each fractured chisel and every defective component, blighted by time and storm, or squandered in ineptitude.

Travailing by night, the stars bathed me in their ethereal glow.  The aroma of salt water was borne by the tender caresses of the breeze.  I was lulled to reverie by the gentle rippling of the waves, dreaming of the ocean’s great expanse, and of glorious odyssey.  The rain cascaded softly by day, to soothe my scorched skin.  With fervour I greeted each labour, kindled by resolution, empowered by hope, despite the oppressive burdens of doubt and disappointment and fatigue, and the dearth of material, or the deficiency of body and tool – even as I was seared by the flames of the forge, or lacerated by the jagged edges of blades.

I remember the clarity which blessed my soul as I gazed upon the ship, wreathed in the façade of grandeur.  The illusion of its strength enfeebles me still – the memory of its full mirage rends my soul.  Embroiled in chaos, I am plagued by thoughts of harmony – reminding me of that which I no longer possess.  Perhaps, indeed, it possessed me.  With rancour I cherish these envenomed relics of joy.  I remember the taste of rain with acerbity, as I flounder in flame.  I remember the symphony of creation with loathing, as I suffer this dissonance.  I remember the breeze with acrimonious longing, as I am warped by hurricanes.  I remember faith with the despair of that which cannot be.

I strive to fix the pieces together, exactly as they once were.  I search for peace in these pieces.