Icarus to sun, Sisyphus to stone. In what wonder would appear now, if not by my own hands.
Dream then, but not. What lays upon closed eyes just bades me to slumber more. I’ve much more to do before what it is I do becomes an endeavor. Far more miles, and each step as much pain as it was the day the before. The breeze never touches me here.
Count the number of angels on a pinhead but if any, none would grant a blessing. It’s a walk through the mire, and each witch there would have my last breath before these fetid, still waters take me. Before carelessness, before I lose sight of where I need to go.
I’ve but these hands I see before me, although I lose sight of each at times. I’ve forged nothing before any glowing red hearth. I’ve made nothing, yet all my life has been wrought by them.
Now, nothing but sightless dark before them. Punch first, and question later. It’s the only way not to linger here.
Cold, blind, and knee deep in the marshes of all my mistakes.