Paroxysms. Dark Chasms. Wilted flowers. Broken Promises. Dried ink pots. The Yellow of Age. Bridges, I couldn't walk across. Bridges, I built, but its cause lost. Time has passed me by. Its few periods lost in the memory of rain. Some with a moon, it'll never be the same again. Then the cold abyss. The call of the day. Shafts of light. The comfort of shadows and gray. A spiral. A circle.
Cryptic, but its best this way. This is one promise kept. A Redux, yet again.