Watchers of the stormFlit round our glowing domeNot for them a slow heat deathBut frozen by the cosmic dawnHewn from primal fire and stoneThey watch while we freely burn
The last Immortal, in the endFade to grey and crumble to touchI can only pray to me nowSelf immolate, to find a sparkA lifetime burns and fades awayThe last mortal, at the end
Imagine a land so old, where everything that could be has been,Imagine the stories, played out between stone and skyWritten into ragged rocks, until they hold no moreAll have fled and time slips away, unnoticed.
A decent into insanity is a journey through a series of closed doors.
Each one unravelling more mind-chaos than the one before,
fragmenting and multiplying, paths with too many choices,
no same person can hold on to them all.
Worse still are the mirror shards, fractal facets, reflecting mosaic faces,
each one an individual but smeared and mingled in a confused sea of identity.
Who can survive such a storm intact?
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