Once alive, then at rest, breathing now. A time on fire, then locked in ice, song and thunder raising the dead. Haunting melodies herald coming storm; patterns unfolding unravel moments, wake a season lost. Ghosts that linger, flicker then fade, come back to life when dancers sway. Softly now, walk the paths of the dead.
This isn’t darkness, this shroud about me – ’tis Winter’s grip choking the light. This isn’t sorrow, this weight upon me – ’tis grief unspoken, echoed in night. This isn’t empty, this void of being – ’tis hollow clay, sheltering wights.
When words falter, fail and fade, so too, the strings and fingers, the voice and ear, the pen and paper, ink and clay. All for a lost muse whose fire has gone cold and left me here alone with nothing left to say, play, or create.
Some days being god is easier than others.
Falling leaves, fading pages, forgotten dreams lost to the ages. Roads once travelled, rivers once sailed, ravens now those journeys hail. Once I was young, a world to see; where now the days that once set me free? Searching again, seeking my grail in song of the ravens, forgotten and frail. Gone is the sun, glory days past, given to fate, not meant to last. Flames are dimming, fires are dying, but for the ravens with me always flying.
Memory lane may often hold fond treasures, but it isn’t always easy to travel.