The card led to cobbles
but the lead, the road
was
too, far, too off in the
distance
to start again, to mend,
to the end.
Yet he lay there, decided,
pocked by
the sight, that horrible
feeling,
the empress rise, but not a vice:
must resist.
It was now night.
“For where is the garden?
what is the woe?
how to parry the past,
the future,
the glow?”
The search took him far,
but darkness intervened,
he waiting for the light still,
he anticipated the morning,
but would this come to pass?
Now closing in on moon beams,
he seemed to give in;
he lay down, chin, low,
clenched beneath
and watched
the streams in the distance,
the beams
shot into eye, and never end.