I have grown weary
in a life too long for me,
but soon I will fade.
The ancient wizard sat back in his chair. Its old wood creaked as he settled in. His eyes closed forever, the pen in his hand still dripping with ink.
I dream of the rain,
it’s cold touch on my warm skin;
the storm is coming.
The child sat at his window, the sea, dark and terrible, raging below. The lighthouse beckoned ships to harbor with its roaring fire. The boy watched the storm.
Somewhere a tree falls,
and somewhere a forest burns.
Only ash remains.
The city had deep roots: It was a city built above a city built above a city, and some knew the ways into those lower and forgotten depths.
Tale Told 