A Singular Digression



I dream of crossing an open plain, the horizon forged of cold iron.

I walk a raised highway etched with strange runes and pictures, aluminum and ebony, a Rubicon cut through a valley of dust.

I shudder beneath silent thunderheads, towering like impassive gods as I walk. The sound of a single soprano far away, trilling endlessly on the wind, filled with glory and sorrow.

I walk into an echoing courtyard, endless and round, too large to truly see and rising to a tall gray spike in the center. Shadows seem to move around me, ephemeral and warm. I long for them.

I reach the nadir and climb effortlessly, gaining speed, awaiting something. Ravenous for it. A wolf in the fold.

I gain the spire’s heights and cry out to the clouds, casting my eyes around the entire courtyard at last.


It is utterly empty.


No one to meet me.

No one gone before.

No one to explain.

No one to forgive.

No one to be forgiven.


I am alone.


I wake.

Still a stranger amongst the dead.


1 Comment

  1. Not alone. Perhaps yes, a stranger, far from the lands of home; perhaps a stranger left living in still grey dead spaces.

    But not alone.

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