Fingers stained
with ink red and black,
I set off to add to the sum.

The pen dried out
atop an unfinished page
as I swam to the siren,
did her bidding,
hunted and fought and vanquished,
rewarded each time
with rank and prestige
and new weapons.

I realized too late I was gaining the Sight.
I could see dead men walking.
I could spot a liar without knowing the lie.
I could see the lattice of patterns beneath
    every word
    every action
    every thought
laid and flayed bare,
electricity dancing from raw nerves,
my chewed-off fingernail
tracing the course of particles
thought mere figments of Brownian motion.
I could read minds.

Awesome,
I presided,
wrought sense out of chaos
and justice out of lies,
my acquired prestige a currency
to spend dismantling each new phantasm.
The Sight whispered to me,
"memento mori".

I realized too late I was marked.
I set off inland,
    oar over shoulder,
    pen in hand,
and finally returned to the page,
but red ink read as blood,
black ink as soot.
Even a thousand leagues
from the sirens' shores,
my prizes stalked me
and I could not
not see new ones,
an innocent adversary
only distinguished
from a dogged pursuer
through the same Sight I sought to forsake.

I realized too late I was blinded
to the surface of the world.
In the mirror I saw my own tangled knot
and tried reflexively to trace its path
and solve a mystery I already knew.
I broke away and saw others and saw their essences
but could not see their faces.
I looked back and I could not see my own.