Making my way among the converging lines
New perspectives
New Horizons

Something in the wood took you
I try to find pieces
Of your very being
Tucked beneath some moss rock

Or underground
In burrows of the thick and tangled undergrowth

Amidst a stillness
Tainted by an eerie drone
Suffusing the atmosphere
Traversing a terrain
Devoid of landmarks
I follow faint footprints
A sullen scent
I can hardly recall
A dulled voice
Sifting through the pine
You are not there
All that remains of you is
An echo of an echo of an echo

“It’s a gift and a curse.
You get the pain much worse than anybody else,
but you see the sunrise much more beautiful than anybody else. “

– Spike Milligan, speaking about his depression

Before the Squall by Arthur Symons
The wind is rising on the sea,
The windy white foam-dancers leap;
And the sea moans uneasily,
And turns to sleep, and cannot sleep.

Ridge after rocky ridge uplifts,
Wild hands, and hammers at the land,
Scatters in liquid dust, and drifts
To death among the dusty sand.

On the horizon's nearing line,
Where the sky rests, a visible wall,
Grey in the offing, I divine,
The sails that fly before the squall.

Side by side like that

Those last 2 lines bring an enormous calm