When entering the Gorge, leave behind all preconceptions. Let yourself be carried off on a stream of consciousness that tickles the heavens as readily as it grinds down stone.

The Sad Story Of Resimor P. Moc


Resimor P. Moc is tracking the Bear
relentlessly, he fixes his stare,
grinds his teeth, clenching
in blindness the head-wrenching
reins – reminders of power – and steers,
steers, steers toward the mirage, the unclear,
in a barrage of whipping cracks. He entertains
gruelling thoughts. Stacked in his pouch, they sustain
his personal duel. He gallops on ruefully,
conviction sealed in regrets gracefully
kept in balance, hanging from the air
he breathes, dangling in despair
he feels but cannot see. His needs
have been changed, his deeds
rearranged to accommodate the faces
he travels with. Onwards he races,
constantly reassessing his course,
reversing, mindfully yielding to any force
wielding promise or threat.
Drenched in pouring rain, soaking wet,
he pushes on, pushed by the storm
that rages around him obscuring his form
in grey mist and sky and bland apprehension.
Passing through settlements, enduring tensions,
he observes the landscape shift,
he settles on ground flowing adrift,
settles for less, less, transformed by the fire
that forges his present and growing desire
to reach his objective, to give it all
in order to receive, in order to achieve his goal.
He must find the Bear, the Golden Fleece
to set his mind at ease
and make the concessions he made worthwhile.
Great misgivings caress his style
and though he still knows it not,
he bargained everything he got,
he gave away his space
to venture in a trodden place
engulfed in everlasting mist,
mist that leads him like a sodden priest
to heavens nowhere to be found,
to kingdoms fallen to the ground.
He lingers on, he looks around
and sees them march in muted sound,
his fellow steeds, his fellow mares,
he scrutinises the weights they bear
on their battered backs: Riders of Self-Doom,
their features chiselled with gloom.
They ride in their thousands, a host of ghosts,
trampling over what they once loved most.
Uniqueness faded from their hearts,
traded for tolerance that tore their fabric apart.
It’s been ages since they first got together and marched in search
of the Bear and the Fleece. Their essence now besmirched,
they stumble and fall, feeling sorry, not wiser.

Behold the sad army of the great Compro Miser.