Story of Song

The wind takes my breath away as I stand atop that crimson hill. Dreams of the past flash before my eyes, never tearing away from the silent oncoming darkness, menacing but true. It envelopes me in its safe uncertainty carrying both hope and lose, promise and betrayal. I am never sure there, never positive, yet this is a comfort. For as long as I am uncertain I can't be blamed. Neither for the truth nor for lies. The abyss makes no accusations. My shadows conceal the truth.

The constant dream of soft light shatters me. It mocks me with its demand for attention, its yearning for reality. I'm pained as I suppress it and turn my back on what it wants to be, on what I wish it to be. But I do not know the steps, am too fearful of the consequence that is sure to come from effort. My feet are restless, my knowledge is weary. Yet I do not know the steps. I do not know them.

The cramp, the splitting pain, the rolling thunder of yearning. Seeking out that which cannot be given, that which reality evades. The tumbling abyss of nothing, yet everything. A fall I wish so much to take, if only to escape this madness that calls itself true love.

The image fades at the edges, a ghost of allusive comfort. A picture drawn from distress, pain of isolation, of beginning on the outside for all eternity. The fear tears me open, takes the place of long eradicated rational thought. Twisted contortion of memories that never were consume that once ambitious mind, replacing it with insensate vision. One of darkness, yet little fear. For it is known that nothing will be found there.