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And there are those that vanish,
beneath the sundered skies.
Who prey upon the witless,
with malice in their eyes.
Sit smoking in the landscape,
a rolling wake of rage.
Tumultuous with a sickness.
beyond mere turn of age.
This rhyming lilt of marching,
doth shake the pebbled earth.
Resplendent in the darkness,
erasing his own birth.
And through that eye of nothing,
a glass burned through with none.
Bob: Wow, I was beginning to think you’d fallen off teh intarwebs.
Shaun: Droll.
Bob: Well, I certainly thought so. What, nothing to say for the last over a month?
Shaun: …
Bob: I’ll take that as a no.
Shaun: Do you think this is healthy?
Bob: What? Talking to yourself, or being so apathetic you can’t even bring yourself to write about anything?
Shaun: There’s nothing to write! I played some video games, watched all of House… nothing exciting.
There are things of dark,
and things within the sky.
There are folds of woe,
and wroth of shallow eye.
There are prophets that sit upon words haughty or stripped of fear. And sit they must, digesting solemn mixes of faithless harrow. They tire of life, promised full of meaning and limitless wonder. They are broken, the wanderers, lit like frozen candles flickering in the infinite chaos, striving weakly to scale and scrabble brittle scaffolds of reason.
“Fidalius,” began Kartaena, sadly, “the Human Condition has an infinite capacity for suffering. A man’s ability to torture himself pales the gamut of physical or emotional pain another could mete. History is written on the backs of men and women who ignore this at their peril, societies lost to antiquity, flush with philosophers or kings suffused with their own righteous insights. Even great empires that once spanned the world and ushered a new era of inspired debate and progress lay as dust, forgotten by all.
