The Magician (Reversed)
At least the jagged outcrops have receded
into plains. Not that the plains are much better.
Chuck holes, gopher nests, rocks that
protrude from the ground, all mines, traps
for ankles. Are we even halfway to our
destination? The clouds, what few there are,
have no answers for us. The canteens hold
no more mac and cheese, the dog left
some time ago, is probably back in the woods
before we scaled this butte, fat on rabbits
and the occasional stoat. We have lost
our sense of direction, our emergency kit,
our arcane knowledge, and I can feel
our voices headed that same way. For now,
all we can do is walk, see whether this path
will ever begin its downhill slope.
Strange Winds
Strange winds curled around the
burnished edges of the absurd,
which concealed the unreality of
the moment. It was near a gray
mist covered road filled with
echoes of the unknown, when I
found a dream under a dead
flower in a meadow. I gave it to a
strange lady I did not know, but
recognized from one of my
incongruous nightmares. I was
halfway into visions of my lost
youth when a voice called to me,
leading me to a place where
nothing existed, except ghosts of
the untranslatable past.
The aroma of rotting herbs and
dark fungus was carried by
strange winds up stairs to a
cracked clock with a frowning dial
that was pealing fading hours
hidden in its shattered works, and
I shuddered at the unreality of life
when I saw the lady leering at me
while unraveling the dream.
