Gloomy. This quartet of frozen Sundays. The world on the verge of seasons. The soul in an endless Winter.
How can a flicker of green mark such a void? Its hypnotic heart, a taunt, a promise.
Is it my weakness I only hear the dark frequencies, the minor keys, the laments? Hiding away from the shimmering. The world and its furious dance. Yet still surprised by solitude. The recurrent theme, the comforting and abiding surrender.
I wished it away. Was that wrong? To reject what had so embraced me. To reach beyond a realm into the light that filled with wild ideas and aspirations. I willed a change. I tasted it. It frightened me. I diluted it until its bitter drug dragged me back and its withdrawal contaminated the waking dreams.
I feed that darkness, its greed and its demanding mouth, the glimmer of lights that once guided me. The beacon I yearn for flickers and is no more.
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