300 years later I returned to the tower, a wasteland of stone mason rubble where my memories of grandeur were reduced to the fragments of aimless battles. I stumble through the wreckage like a blind nomad, cursed to live through the destruction, my petty desires helped bring about. Traversing through this terrain where sonnets morphed into elegies. Where the death of two star-crossed lovers festered and rotted the land, the people.
The ghosts of old, rose from the dried peat, like an army of Jacob Marleys whose only goal was to make sure my final years were spent in the splintered clutches of karma. Before my mind becomes another grave for this tainted kingdom, I grabbed a chalice, and poured a flask, shouting cheers to the spoiled fruits of my own unwelcomed labor.
As I sat in the misery of my own making. Staring back at a scenery of fallen castle walls, shattered draw bridge lumber, fossilized vegetation, all just the aftermath of one’s own selfish, pursuits.