A long, cold day

It may be true that a long cold day is coming.

It may also be true that what's coming is more like fire

too hot for the tenderest of things

at least for a little while.

It may be true that empire is at last collapsing

under its own ponderousness

once again, and as ever.

My crystal ball is dark,

though I hope my vision is clear,

though I try to see what is true, and not flinch.

If I build a fire against the cold

or burrow deep to rest when rest I must,

I know that what's true now is that the truest stories are old.

The endings are many, not guaranteed, not untrue

but also not yet written.

We write in water, we carve our thoughts in stone for tomorrow's eyes.

We leave behind, for the next pointing finger

another layer of fine, refined,

undisturbed, unexpected

Dust.