who we are and all that we're trying to be
He knew ruins: had been one for a long time.
But today he was not laden amongst their bones and sarcophaguses, their carcasses and catacombs, refusing to bend or break like bleached enamel and bloodied marrow. Too close, too certain, too sure, a marching ministration of goals and convictions, glancing along earthen floors and vast warrens of a world too far gone. His eyes were not for them, his soul was not to wander into its midst, his entity not confined to its mystical, enigmatic edges, to definitions of what must have been and couldn’t. He didn’t dwell on those notions, hell-spun and resolute, drifting closer and closer to the outskirts instead, to the boughs extended over old roofs and collapsed shells. To leaves, meant to either signify life or their destroyed, muddled aspects, the jars containing others held in the bag over his shoulder; inspecting, collecting, determination melded and molded into his brow – the piercing juncture of his stare reserved for branches and brambles, for the surface of serrated blades and fronds.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
