The westering sun feels good
across my shoulders,
but it will not be up
much longer.
The days shorten, and soon
Winter’s teeth
will nip and pull
on Autumn’s dry teats.
The narrow crag
between
the high cliffs
bids me enter.
And I know the diasporic eyes
of the cave dwellers
will mark my passing.
My sword in hand,
useless against their numbers,
yet all I have,
may one day tell the bloody tale
of what happened here.
There will be no light to guide me,
for even the stars fear to shine on this place.
My soul begins its dirge,
and I step into
my story’s end.
Beyond Panic 