Trouble underway along the road,
it’s paved in dirt and stone
but scattered ashes line the surface.
In times he is red with rage,
but thoughts of sinful crimes emerge
and ease his polar minds.
Always he hears the call of the sea,
but in the waking hours of twilight
it calls him to a grave and not to a home.
Lately he is fire and ice within the hearth,
melting like the heaps of winter snow
as he studies the pages of ethereal parchments.
Once he sat upon the throne of rusted steel,
and now he tends the field of golden hay
waiting for the stars to align.
He once held a weekly ball within his hall,
but his outfits all started to tare
and the guest list whittled away with the years.
A newfound peace intertwines with,
oh, that ever familiar darkness
like a toxic sun upon a poisonous sea.
He would prefer to wield a short blade,
one sharp and drenched in blood
than to unsheathe the nothingness that awaits him.
Monuments can be daunting like a mirror,
but in the hour that he learns to turn his head
he will hover into his fantasies and turn to stone.
He used to be afraid to think about death,
but then he learned to love the thought
since in turn it helped him to stay alive.
He hand-wrote a postcard for the first time,
at least in a long time, and as if by some instinct
he broke down in relief and anxiety.
Although he was a writer in his own words,
he had nothing left to say anymore
and sent it in hopes that the picture would say enough.