| As if through a web of obsidian silk
|
| My sight returns as from a dream
|
| A dream empty of thoughts and sounds and visions
|
| And I remember it being one of the most beautiful places I had ever been
|
| I had never before that point known such peace
|
| A winter for the spirit, I was harvested of essence
|
| A place of endless solace placating this soul’s corroded ruins
|
| Bereft of flesh, divorced of earth, severed of being
|
| And now I can drift once again but soaring free
|
| I can look down upon all I once knew — all I once was
|
| And see with the cold, crystalline clarity of the dead
|
| Through eyes unmisted, a mind unfogged, free of the oppressive weight
|
| Of the cathedral’s dead stone
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| Of this body’s withered flesh
|
| Of this mind’s shattered synapses
|
| I didn’t think such a quiet was possible
|
| That the relentless roil of rage and despair thrumming like lava through me
|
| Could be extinguished
|
| And given over to a plateau of calm stillness
|
| I embrace this season of ending
|
| With every fiber of my departing consciousness
|
| Frozen and eternal
|
| A winter for the soul carried on oblivion’s ghostly breath
|
| One last final exhortation
|
| To the violent winds that rend and rend and rend and rend
|
| I surrender
|
| I descend
|
| I dissolve
|
| I end |