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DUST AND RUIN

In this world without end you walk your road of bones in search of truth. Beneath the forlorn sky you witness the dusk yield to darkness. Within that barren blackness a ghoulish cold creeps like a poltergeist with matted hair glued to pale sinew stretched over frail bones. Its cracked, mottled nails strip you of strength and valour and you are left with wounds that are deep and wide. Raven-stone eyes wet with pain beg you to stay, wallow, and drown in misery and self-imposed suffering.

You forge further, unrelentingly, into the obscure murk until the blood red horizon burns away the black, distant vistas of monuments that loom from the earth like crumbled paper cities painted by tremulous hands upon broiling clouds. Derelict isles of trial and war call your bleeding heart home. They are symbols of ascendance despite the great loss that has caused the abandonment of all words and feelings.

From those apocalyptic halls of dust and ruin you shall grasp a fistful of clay and mould it into a world of untouched golden plains. There, titan-tombs lacerate the sky and tire-worn roads carry you to the ashen salt sea. The briny waters lap violently against the husk of basalt columns, and upon those cliffs you stand beneath the dome of thunderous chords. Hail pelts your shoulders like the arrows of gods. The infinite storm blisters and scars your skin, yet you stand stolidly in opposition, unwilling to surrender to all that attempts to shackle you to the darkness, to defeat, to death.

You, creator.

You, destroyer.

You, voyager.