I stepped out on a path of black stones,
polished by the wind,
my reflection a twisted insight.

Iron-grey the early evening sky.
I sweated,
though I knew the seasons turned
(in my favour).
The blood that was singing
now choked up with ice.

I spat up a vile sickness,
a thread of black,
my burden given up
to a greater universe
(the one outside).

I tasted blood,
and not surprised
found myself with mortal wounds:
ambushed and set upon
while I slumbered on my feet.

A trite contradiction:
I oft’ fire arrows at myself as well.

I’ve hunted deer that upon death
turn into long-lost friends.
I’ve spoken to gusts of wind
(they shaped themselves like great owls).
I’ve been taught the secrets of this world
by inert stone.
Who’s to say I’m only waking now?

To step outside one’s self as I did
is to see a vague grey aperture.
Words once meant so much to me
but I never saw their chains.

I cried out on a windswept hillside
alone, with lightning blazing.
Thunder, heartbeat of a greater force,
my guiding fiction.

Who’s to say I’m alone on my forest walks?
Who’s to say the eyes of town, they see me?

I dreamt of a world at night,
with all the little humans sleeping
and dreaming of themselves
(all within my dream).

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