Chronicle

A vacuum, sweeping still and culminating in a royal disappointment. Smooth flows a river, grey and greying. Amaranth blossoms in the crevices of an eruption, ready to spew immortality to the reaches of every man, or was that a distraction ?

Bleak, a solitary figure, centered in a wide-angle lens, a lone white figure on a black backdrop, black drapery, black windows, white light. Pacing forth, pacing forth.

Let flow your hair, black stream, so close to purity, let it flow, break against my feet. Shine in the twilight, unkempt in a mile so many miles away. Will you sink, will I sink, who will sink ? Will you carry the raft, splintered, roped, in your silver robe, down into streams of innocence and entire humility, or am I a victim of that ill illusion ?

I will not fall at your feet, I cannot. But you can rise, tower over me, fortress, calm, defended, protected, shielded.

Am I the enemy.