No Questions Answered

A place like no other.

Filled with rectangular prisms.

Stacked upon another.

A glass, pointed cone.

Reflections seen.

And reflections gone.

A certain view-

can send the colours spinning.

“What is this place?”

A voice is calling... but only fog is withstanding.

A dream-

or not one of reality.

A palace this is.

But not of a monarchy?

Perhaps I am that ruler?

A voice, again, calling for me.

Only the blackened sky is to be seen.

One barren tree, its limbs like cracked pieces- reaching to capture.

One lowly black bird- a mocking of course.

For it looks down at me with disdain.

The palace. Looming glorious as ever.

The wind whistles.

My hair blowing, my lips quivering.

Suddenly chilled.

Or is it frightened?

Clangs of locks and silver barriers- unfastened.

The door is opened.

The fogs stay, moaning of past eves.

Though the air is light- once again.

The tension reduced as the view changes.

The moanings dull.

The wind has dispersed.

Another call of... me?

What shall happen?

Am I the sole ruler?

Would that mean I am to be corrupt?

A scream echoes throughout the fog-

the clouds still lingering.

Though the walls are only of glass-

they are no more transparent than you or me.

For we are no such similar of those long ago.

A time of whimsical thought and premonitions of the ‘future’ are long gone-

for there is no future.