Lystan

• The age of the drowning man has arrived.
• Consequences of choices are ripe for the picking.
• Candlewicks pick up flame and lick thick waxes down.
• Entities dance to tuneless dirges.
• Dreams of aisles and veils portend the desire of a dying heart.
• Unnurtured soul cries — silently, bitterly — behind fierce mask.
• Lost believer making their way back to the beckoning fold.
• Pains, joys, tribulations mingle for perfect sustenance.
• Cast adrift in sunless seas, tides ebbing, flowing to final oceans.
• Ends of worlds no longer matter.
• Maps no longer bear compass points to lead the way.
• Directions are meaningless — the only choice left is to trod onwards.
• Forward, forward, forward to bleak horizons feet doing the work.
• Goodbyes are spent, hellos are still minted and unused.
• Oceans swallow sleeping ships and spew them back to empty piers.
• Baggages are packed, unpacked, and packed again.
• Endless cycles of journeys, fares, waiting, boarding, and alighting.
• Each moment whittles away what is left of the soul.
• Like soap left out in the dribbles of rain — whittled away to nothing.
• Soon everything will become clearer or more muddled even.
• Life is a long long journey — it would not do to lose the instinct.
• How will the survivor fare? It is always a question through eternity.
• Torturous climb and bone-smashing falls always await close by.
• The roads are strewn with regrets and alibis.
• The dawn of the drowning man is here.
• Hark! let the trumpets cheer.

~ by feyoh on 24 September, 2009.