Who will free me of this curse of perpetual vulpine wandering? That I should always walk out into the night and where I but less resolute than I suppose; surely I should howl and bay at the very moon that guides me home.

I love words. They flow and weave across the wasteland of media blanks like literacy ants forming some kind of homogenous colony that grows from the smallest beginning to a mighty collection of order or perhaps dies in inception or during its initial formation. Writers like hidden queens in secret chambers engender growth and control all things within their realm. In life we may as individuals, be small but within our imagination and expression we can take pleasure in the impossible task that is to describe in text what the eye sees and the heart feels.

Where shall I fly today when the world shrinks around me? Where shall I land as the world turns from the greyed ash to kindled fire along an eastern ridge and the morning comes alive from the wasted night? Like a song that streams across the valley fading on the wind, ever soft I tread on ancient grounds swelling with autumn rains. The point of reverence is now almost reached and it is not defiled by the insuperable odds of reasoning. Yet who would bestow such a gift on so unlikely a champion and for what ends? When the sway of the world moves in time with the ruin of all we held to be good; what shall arise from the black of night to surprise an angry dawn?

© Edetric Vistal