Squandered Before me, Beneath me, stands a deserted chair. Monument to man’s folly. An idealist, once, I wished to share, to aid, to serve. They sought not wisdom, but conflict, and found I rendered all. Fresh turned soil filled the fields to bursting, golden grain gave way to blackened sepulchre. Dread begins small and buried deep, but soon spreads wide. Each traitorous thought a black flame in the heart. Where once I hoped to share my power, I do indeed but unrestricted. My ancient bones have walked in alien suns, flown with gods themselves, and swam with those beneath the flow of time. So, draw your swords of brittle metal, mouth your words with leather tongue, pray to your incomprehension. This desolate hollow chair shall remain.
