"Not all those who wander are lost." – JRR Tolkien
In the breath of dingy oblivion, a grain of muse decides to knock at the contemplation that is yet to sigh.
He encounters a harsh swarthy gate, whose mocking wet spikes gives him shivers of despair, because he knows what awaits him inside. Preoccupied with a pacifying hymn in the air, grins he back at the torments across the gate.
Sees he, a habitation of eternity which resides upon the shoulders of thousand years of mortality. Tears of dark cloudy eyes have silenced, the once spirited walls. Walks he still to witness a deceiving breath of death. Climbs he, the stairs, with a throbbing heart. Shadow of helplessness walks alongside too, because muse knows what awaits him inside.
Opens he a door which doesn’t get locked anymore, smells he dead faith and rotten happiness around, standing on a broken ground. He smiled at the ghost of deathlessness. Two lifeless eyes give him a sight of antipathy from a chair of wet wood, a pale face reflects infinite damnation, white & black. Drenched in melancholy laughed he within because he knew what awaited him.
Smoke all around may be of the pyre, ‘once they burnt him alive’ muse remembers, yellow dried leaves of knowledge and solace scattered around. Chilling breeze from the pane-less windows gets ridiculed by the mature alcohol, lightened up in darkness, a shadow of isolation. Turned then the muse back in comfort, because he knows, whats awaiting him would wait, but come.