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.


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.


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.


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.

As The Storm Unfolds

Plants once thrived here, in resplendent bloom – infused with such wonder and vitality, bearing ambrosial fruits and flowering in a myriad of effulgent hues and virginal colours.  The rain bathed the soil in which they were sown – and yet did not besiege in deluge or flurry.  The winds bore forth their seeds, preserving their majesty beyond the throes of demise, and yet did not wrest their roots from the earth in tempest.  The sun nurtured their thriving, and yet did not desiccate or scorch, united in harmony with the rain.  Demons did not brandish their claws, nor rend the soil in their malice.  The sea surged not in frenzy, but soothed these crops with its tranquil hymn, rising with the falsetto of the wind and the whisper of rain as it kissed the earth.  Birdsong resonated, weaving its own euphonious melody into the symphony of nature.  Life blossomed boundlessly.

Then man encroached upon this isle, and brought forth with him his corruption.  They hewed the trees with their chainsaws and machinery, for the promise of gold bound in its rare wood. With fertilizer they sought to encourage further growth, surfeited not by the already flourishing multitude of fruits and crops.  Yet the soil was infected, and the taint diffused throughout the island – for all the roots were interconnected, weaving and intertwining infinitely as veins of the earth.  The roots withered, and the plants blackened, and the fruits decayed.  In desperation they kindled the isle – not in remorse, but rather to veil their sin in smog.  They forsook the isle, after they had marauded all vestige of life.

Yet these flames blaze still, charring the grace which once blossomed here.  The spirits imbuing these plants were released, and their purity was defiled by fury and the rancour of vengeance and love.  They haunt this isle, and persecute the shipwrecked.

The storm then unfolded.