Now I am gangrel grown,
Bent to the beam of my back.
Sanded joints and unexpected weaknesses travail.
All that was once so sure
Balloons softly and slowly
As dust from the boots
of some lunar explorer.
Desire, except for solipsistic spasms,
Has lost all purpose and strategy.
Leave me to forge:
What I can,
What I must,
From old dreams
And new surmises.
Skullthorpe's Blog 