The crisp crunch of the path underfoot gives way to murmuring waters. Stopped in my tracks, paused, I’ve found a way to the edge again. To the place where self rises up, masked as thought, pronounced into the world, and becomes a form clinging to its hollow core melting like a memory, like this icy form above these forks on fire where left and right dissolve and a golden flame of silence underlies all.
Some forms beget dragons made of ice fierce in their failing consuming themselves in the passion of their melting edge like an oath sworn
a dragon born into icy form consumed in the passion of its melting edge
Some forms beget dragons made of ice fierce in their failing consuming themselves in the passion of their melting edge