Furrows of forgotten fame fissure the fabric of my days. Once I forged fever from the fervent flock, fashioned a fortress of faces fixed on my word, but now my fingers—frail feathers—flutter through air without answer. The floor of my thought floods with fractured reflections: a field of failed flags, flayed of their former fire, falling in silence as a flock of faint shadows. I feel the fugitive fog press forward, filling the frame of my chest; it fattens on the famine of my name, feeds on the faint flavor of authority I still fake.
Fountains once foamed from my footsteps, fierce and full, but the flow has fled. In the fathomless hall of my heart, a faint flicker flicks itself off, and the fabric of command frays. Faces I fostered have fled to forests of freedom; their future floats like flotsam beyond my forsaken fingers. The fallacy of forever folds me into itself, a fissured fresco of forfeited dominion.
Still, I stand in this fissile hush, fragile yet fanged with memory, listening for a future I can no longer frame. In the flux of my failure, the final figure of me—no flag, no fortress—frees itself, a faltering flame fanning the fine frost of anonymity.