Dull Tea Sojourn

Wanting to get Away... Needing to get Home. Are they all dead? Fantasticals, Fantasy, Phantasms? Fantastic Rascals. Masters. Hmmpphhh. Tin-roofed. Straw-sided. Dirt-floored. Mundane. Arcane. Insane? (Them. Or, I?) I’m on a meadow lark. I’m on a mountain pass. I’m at a crossroads; one lone road stretched out ahead - stretched out behind - , if I care to look, into and through each and every Eternity. The tea is thin. The ember, black. The robe unment. The cane unsupporting. The larder full... of rot; vouchsafed against the coming nothing-more-coming. The inkquill dry, the pages full. The air silent and gifted me some somberity. The birds nest now in as well as out. The rains quiet and pool now in as well as out. The empty deepens now in as well as in me. The Master, oh so great, is Gone. Now. The Master, her formative ages forming formless, is Gone. Now. The Master, let his name sweeten my lips, is Gone. Again. Empty, Silent. Voidhome. The peak, a valley. Songbirds sing. Leaves rustle. Breezes whisper. Geese squonk. Empty; perhaps though never emptied. Silent; perhaps though never silenced. The Master, the Indubitable Inscrutable, is Gone. and or maybe if perhaps could likely or somehow somewhat say was was never was. Is, still, somehow or of course, Gone. Echoes dwell. Lessons linger. Songbirds sing. The tea is weak; mine (nay, ours) to sip.