The Traveller


He knew not of where he was

For when he opened his eyes

The sights were alien to him

He stumbled to his feet

And tried to comprehend

The incomprehensible

Stunted  foliage stretched on

Further than the eye could see

Giving no comforting respite but rather

Unbridled despair

He trudged through putrid muck

Rotting vines

Air dwelling moss draped over-head like a pall

O’er a deserted and comatose world

All was silent but for the squish of mud

Unmoving and weighty mist hung o’er the trees

An impenetrable curtain

White but without life

But hope kept him vivid and brightened his eyes

For he was not of that world

He travelled far

Forgetting distance as it blended into a single impression

Through nameless murky pools edged by alien mosses and fungi

Through an ancient clustered grove of twisted and tangled blackness

Until he finally beheld a precipiced and towering hill Rocky and unclimbable

Yet he continued

Sustained by hope and blind faith

To the top of the mount

The man, through much toil and sweat

Broke through the ceiling of the world

And was engulfed by a brilliant phantasmagoria

Swirling galaxies of violet and umber

Uncrossable voids of blackness darker than time itself

Pinholes of bright white

Indigo stars surrounded by blazing infernos

And the silence of space

The man collapsed to his knees

And sunk into the earth

His body was absorbed into the mud

But his soul drifted upwards

Wandering to the edges of infinity

Bearing witness to the commencement and end of time

And what lies beyond eternity


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