as a group we had travelled a great distance, more than the circumfrence of the earth.  more than all the days in a lifetime.

 

 a sunless road, we were lit only from within, and from without- educated by the cold philosophy of the stars, that light that drove the poets to anemia.

 

those poor friends whose complicated languages stung our senses

to acuteness, but for all of which were drowned out by the sound

of rushing blood.

 

we had travelled this distance, looking not down into the void but into each others eyes, which flashed like beacons on distant mountains,

 

we were our own guideposts, our own watchfires.. ships lost at sea forever, or until the last generation turned to dust

 

, we said look at us and not down into the depths, do as I do. We travelled with our gods withering and transmuting on the vine, now wrathful, now benevolent.

 

those that struck from the path we pelted with stones, we called them mad, and mad they often were, struck through with a fire that purged them of their humanity.

 

there is no trace of those we lost on the way, not even their bones. They were eaten by the cold and fell a great height from the bowels of the stars. A few survived and became like scars on our conciousness, artists who could pour out molten gold from their

mouths and hands. artists, but also outcasts, like tame wolves. they watched us over the fires with a slavering conciousness.

 

now, in the yellow light of the lanterns strung

out along the walls, i left alone, gold at my back and unfathomable

darkness ahead.