The Weight of My Own Hands

There is no wind where I now fall,
No distant voice, no hopeful call.
No stars remain to chart my way,
Only endless night that swallows day.

The black below, the black above,
A tomb bereft of light or love.
No rage survives, no tears remain,
Even sorrow itself tires of pain.

I reached too deep where shadows fed,
And woke the things that should stay dead.
Each step I chose, each gate unbarred,
Was laid by my own reckless heart.

The Void asked nothing, made no plea;
Its open jaws were carved by me.
No tyrant cast these chains around,
I forged each link without a sound.

Now feeling dies by slow degrees,
Like autumn claiming fallen leaves.
Joy departed first from sight,
Hope ripped and sundered in the night.

Love, nothing more, a fading name,
Warmth a half-remembered flame.
Fear itself has long since flown;
Even despair grows tired alone.

Still, somehow breath invades my chest,
Though living offers little rest.
My hands reach out through endless stone
To clutch at what has long since gone.

Nothing answers.
Nothing stays.
Nothing marks the passing days.

Yet still I drift.
Yet still I breathe.
Though there is nothing left to leave.

Perhaps this is the truest end:
Not death, or peace, nor foe, or friend.
But learning that the darkest prison
Is built from every choice we've given.

So let the Void consume my name.
I will not curse it, nor proclaim
That fate was cruel or gods unjust.

The fault...
Was mine.

The fall...
Was trust.

And if these violet depths decree
No dawn shall ever rise for me,
Then I shall meet that endless sea

With empty heart,
With hollow eyes,
Until the last of memory dies.

For I have looked into the night
And know the darkness bears no spite.
It simply waits...

For those who make their own bed
To lie upon it and be dead.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Scarlatan, in the year 1010 AF.