Prose Poetry: Ancient
A gray wind gusts and my spirit bones are sent down, down, spiraling down. There is a thick fog here, and though there is a light in the distance the mist filters it so that it is barely anything, barely a whisper in the darkness. I am enveloped in something dangerous. It is far more ancient than this caliginosity, and it is true down to the very fibers of the oldest blood spilled here, the first blood. The only blood. It will cocoon me tightly in this haze and suffocate me, leech the life from my skin. I will be nothing but ash. And as terrifying as the prospect is, as paralyzed as I am at the idea that my life will sink into this marshy, lightless earth, I am relieved to the point of breathlessness. This vapor is older than the stones. The light dims. The light dims, and I am ancient too.