But for being lost

As black imbued black, so was rendered the pitch of darkness that engulfed this godforsaken yard of graves. Yet here I stood, seemingly first to tread this weed-ridden soil since times of yore, when life had erstwhile blessed this land. But for being lost in solitude, as does a country wanderer, I would not have happened across this morbid landscape. And though details were barely visible to my naked eye (for desperately had the moon tried to break through the fog), a sense of something suffused the place… Was it those tormented spirits desperate for absolution? Or were perhaps the gargoyles teasing me on whether they’d be of stone or living flesh? In answer, I steadied my rocking legs and racing mind to wonder of this scenario, and in doing so I found myself waking from a cramped dream whence the message dawned: Mine had been such an insignificant and claustrophobic life…


About Mauro Metallo

A Writer and Photographer equally at home in Italy and in Canada.

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