They chase me. Formless and black,
tall shadows creeping along the ground.

If the Spirit inhabits all things,
then these are legion. Their open eyes

relaying each turn of my hand, counting
the feathers fallen from my wings.

Crimson stickmen upon golden butterfly
point their gaunt fingers at me.

Sleep comes in waves and I wrestle with it
as if it were a birthright, something I need to claim.

If I call out, wouldn't their voices surely rise,
declare me enemy and unleash panic,

the soft focus of their edges not blurred enough
for my mind to rest. I mediate upon the earth,

their grounding. The air above remains
a false azure shimmering an apology

I cannot write.Calling upon my bond with them:
An effort to survive the immutable

patterns of my days that can be only heard
as a prayerless confession,

the pale eclipse of an I'm sorry
against a steady foreground of runes.



Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Glacian, in the year 451 AF.