Immolation. Buildings of soul rot, brought low by machinations of man’s confusion, snowballing to a final point of which mind and body fails to undo what it has wrought. Conflagration from many hands. A malicious sycophant fans kindling of twigs, bark, and gas with cyclical words and duplicitous bigotry. Spiritually and physically I stand amongst ash. Wind swirls gray snow, dotting my skin with burning stars.
Wood cool against my palm, clouds amass unnatural and looming. Doom still distant, whip-crack of my final curtain call blows my hair back, ash puffs off my railing. This wood will join dirt and soil again, as it always has. Will I follow it? Is what joins my body and mind in unity as normal, as boring as varnish and chlorophyll? If my soul is nothing but atoms, what will occur if I am nothing but distant things, floating about with nothing to hold onto? Would I know if such an important part of my conscious brain was missing? And still, I could not point to it. I could not show it to you, nor could I distinguish it from wind, rain, or ground.
Warmth now, a comfort in this cold. It grows with my shadow, cast long by my world’s wound. Its skin torn, wailing with its undoing. A ghoul, donning a mask of a natural bounty, rips away what it will not sow. No bird will birth from this squalid land. No oaks will touch sky, for no acorns will last this onslaught. Unfair spawn, disloyal kids born of a kind womb, bring pain to that which only knows compassion.
I am but a victim of my own kind. A pawn with no loyalty to that which ruins. I saw it fall, and so, too, I shall fall with it.
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