Page of Swords

November 25, 2009
There is no sky. No valley to cross through and seize hope. Because hope is in oblivion, nestled in the arms of goodbye. No water or ground. There’s only floating. I make a ground so I can see, but it is false. False and flat. My legs don’t work because I am nowhere. I have no feeling. I am transcending to prove a point. And a light obscures my body. I can no longer feel. If I exist, it is as a mere thought, a benevolent (or perhaps malevolent) will to keep one surviving speck of someone in continuation. Nothing of me survives, not my heart or hair or lungs or skin. If I have no reflection, I do not live. Because aesthetics are the mark of a human face. But there is no sifting silver glass to reflect my image, so I cannot know for sure. There are no stars. If there is light, it is obscured by the light. There is no darkness because darkness is absence which I am not allowed to feel. And I am alone. I float. I drown. I do not fly. Floating is not the same as soaring. And I am not supported. I long to sink below the suffocation, but I cannot. Hand me a sword that I might smite myself. But that would be too kind. Just taunt me. I care not. How could I with this whistling wind in my ears that I do not feel or see? To mean something to someone, something, would take away from my punishment. Thus, only punishment can touch me. Only the nothing void. So I continue on. There is no pain, but I wish for it. Just give me deliverance. Give me anything. There is no one left to give, nothing left to take. I am alone. And the serpent creeps closer. It glides through the nothing so easily. I envy it, and I know it will make me a deal. I will match any price, anything. This is desperation. But the serpent passes me, glinting evilly in the silver nothingness. I am forsaken. Infinite shadows press on me, and light sears me invisibly. Welcome to the unending.





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