Forgive the musings of a dying man upon his desk. Gods, why does it hurt so much.

For his most high majesty, a crown of thorns. Surrounded by Judases with their own silver coins, what stands in his way other on the path to renewal and regeneration. The pitch black of Midnight, resolute and unending, yet in its length yet, unfulfilled. A prophecy unfinished, a journey diverged, a glass half full, nay, empty, nay - full again, oh woe is to the agents of change and the battles we must fight. What of the Earl who lords over the night, how must he be overcome, must he be overcome? No, yes, no - but is it a bridge too far, must my bridge hold the weight of not only I but my shadow, no - my shade. All these blinding colours, people, things, what is the future that I cannot grasp, what lives beyond the veil, dare I venture into the abyss. Lord knows I have always stared back.

Shiny, shiny, gold - glistening gold - I reach out thus, and yet it remains out of my grasp. So down, down I come like glistening phaeton, yet I hope faith makes a comfortable landing for the things I have seen can no longer be unseen. Chains broken, links unbonded, friendships - temporary, arrival and departure from this mortal coil is but a stumbling block on the journey. Alliances, allegiances, friends, crowds, fans, material - broken. Gone, disappeared, forgotten, ambiguity - unnecessary- inescapable. What to make of such steadfast soldiers, does the iron rust, do the tools dull, the blade blunt, or does the armoury, the inferno within remain burning bright with desire.

Months, months, I beg you to see. I tried for as long as this vessel would allow but they won't see. They never could see. The past whispers back to me, and on its winds ride the four horsemen, forgive me will you, for merely watching the conquests. For what is the conquerers witness, except a conquest himself. What can we make from the land, our soil that will not tie us down. Strapping us to the spirit of the soil, we are the land, the land is us - does this land still want me here. Fight, fight fight, does the war ever end. Let the sparrows whisper into my ear the coming of peace, not peace. No sir, peace does not layeth here. Not in this land, questions, questions, questions. Answer them - answer them.

Who am I

No.

Wrong.

Who are you.

Simple.

You are next.