Into the middle of things
A foggy future at best
And not a clue to the past, save for wreckage
Where did I lose the rest?
In the throes of the grief I awoke to
Or juniper and swallowed smoke?
I beg my clerical guests
Please be those backward facing eyes that have vanished
From doting hands that wash amnesiac heads
The final hope of finding impact from the damage
I am the keeper of plagues
Of every wretched thought
That sits now so deeply ingrained in the deepest grey
An indeterminate shade
That blurs the best of my friends into foes
And warmest embraces to coils of cold rope
And you beg
And you beg
For the sins that have chased you from sleep
To at last be absolved
What monuments arise?
From the blind weaver's loom
None of the courage or strength
That I sought to command
Nothing more than the devilish work
Of my own
Of my own idle hands
Still with the gathering of fragments
I have found moments so profound
On every peak I've claimed and conquered
In every mire where I've drowned
It comes in waves like stirring sea breeze
Or the rush of stranger's skin
The view from here is beautiful
But the air is so thin
One last breath
One last glimpse from this highest of points
With my highest of hopes
Before the coming descent