Circles, etc.

When first he came,
there were seabirds circling overhead
and a chorus of frogs in the bushes,
evergreens and fields of flowers.
But it has been a long journey,
deep in the swamp.
Now he is alone,
hurt, exhausted, and thirsty,
with muck up to his knees
and a tenuous grasp on reality.
However far he’s come
he’s that much further to go,
and the whole thing’s hopeless bleak.
He can’t even remember why he began this trek,
what mission he was trying to complete.
Only despair and emptiness are in his heart,
the Godly part of him died long ago.
Only the monster remains,
and this endless, futile wandering
in blind, uncaring and boundless night,
with no way out, not even death.