There are times as I dally and I dither and I wait when I would wish for things to have transpired in other ways. That is a lie. There are not times, there are all times for it has become an obsession. I wish to leave this place. I wish to go home. I no longer want to wallow in a mire of misery but fly amongst the spires of the divine. As I did. As I would. As I won’t.
It rains again; they cry for me. They weep by the bucket load and I wonder if they realise I know. Would they do so if they did? I doubt it, but I am no longer the judge I once was. Instead, I dance, and the world rumbles at my footfalls. I spring through the storm and bathe in that which I have lost. It is the closest thing to heaven, yet I never feel so far. Ironic, you say. Demonic, say I.