Up the hill, across canvases,
beyond gorges and fires and endless rain,
is the single, last light.
It is hope, for a time,
it is far away, forever.
It hangs, gently, from a bar, line in hook,
swaying, creaking, in the wind,
flies buzzing next to the cadavers that roam,
as it lights the way
up the mountain.
There’s running, along the steppes,
tip-toeing, dancing, by the watchful eyes,
waiting in the darkness,
preying on the gulf,
resting on the table, elbows, eyes, staring down
from up the hill.
The light is behind them,
and they have their back to it,
and they have forgotten that they carry it,
and the weight that it holds
and the light that it gives,
as they look only down
and watch the less bright,
And so, for the rest of us, there is nothing to do,
except trek. Than to hope that their gaze,
their last light,
will fail them,
that they’ll block it in their hubris,
and lose in the shadows,
where they do not work,
so others can overtake,
and step up to the light.
And then it is for the rest of us to hope,
that the newcomer doesn’t accept,
doesn’t take the light for granted, again,
doesn’t learn the same lessons those in the light learn,
even though the light is what teaches them;
that the light, for once, will be blinding,
instead of guiding.
I'm back at it again! It's been aages since I uploaded a piece.
And yes, this means that I've finally started writing them regularly
again. Same rules still apply, one every second day, I never spend more
than an hour on them, from blank page to upload, and not all will get
uploaded. But more will! Since I'm writing them regularly, eventually
there will be one or two I like.
Like this one! It's neat. I hadn't planned for it to take the
turn it does at all, the image that started me was merely the light on
the top of the hill. And then I went from there. Current events... may
have inspired it.
Also, the title is in no way taken from the Metro game, I only thought of that connection after.