There is a version of me
Seven steps ahead,
He implored that I should follow,
Spinning a spider’s thread.
He led me over marshes
Where mallow-long laments,
We toured the northern caverns,
Where habit-froth ferments.
I asked him, where are we going,
His resolute manifest mute,
Without reply, I remained unknowing
Of purpose to his shameful route.
For he stole from me my compass,
He stole from me my hope,
And all the things that I should be
Are buried on those slopes.
If you see me wild and wandering,
Unarmoured man, who once was kind,
You are not viewing me, but him,
My grave was seven years behind.