Transcribing the terra while traveling there:
Upon wanderers wandering without any care,
Hangs a desert moon, a desolate dream,
As empty as emptiness ever could seem.
Yet propounding this path that I ponder alone,
There migrates a multitude; unlimited, unknown.
Cold is the comfort that confronts our confine,
And merry is the mayhem that's transforming time.
Must I have died, or must I be free,
Of the burden that bears on the end; endlessly?
Or must she live, to mine eye deceive,
To dole out devotion and dire decree?
But shameless art I, in the wallowing womb -
For her whispers in white tempt only my tomb.
Author notes
Part 5 in the Whiskey and Lead series.
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