I walk among preserves, not people.
A world-weary wanderer, tired of travel,
but restless in his soul.
These stone-and-ivy ruins,
these empty, rain-slicked city streets,
these dying forests,
these deserts, almost empty of sand,
as if the gods turned a celestial hourglass.
The preserves hail me in greeting,
weep in their newly refreshed grief,
wave to me as I pass,
chase and curse me in their suspicions.
Their children run up to me,
and sing to me,
tugging at my clothes and hair,
encircling me in their singsong games
that light up their ancient faces,
their silent laughter fully roared
in echoes of time.
The musicians still play their festivals
and drip the ghosts of their notes,
that hover, not knowing where to go.
They all linger, just outside the senses,
like flickering lights on the sea.
Instantaneous glimpses of what was,
and what will be again.
‘Wait for me’ they say, ‘we will return.’
I long to sit and eat, and rest,
but over it all,
the emptiness and solitude
move me ever onward.
My own presence lingers
among them.
I hope it brings them comfort.
Beyond Panic 