Penumbra

VoyageurVoyageur 

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Voyageur

Voyageurs (French: [vwajaʒœʁ] ; lit. 'travellers') were 18th and 19th century French Canadians who transported furs by canoe at the peak of the North American fur trade. The emblematic meaning of the term applies to places (New France, including the Pays d'en Haut and the Pays des Illinois) and times where that transportation was over long distances. The voyageurs' strength and endurance was regarded as legendary. They were celebrated in folklore and music. For reasons of promised celebrity status and wealth, this position was coveted. Despite their fame, their lives were arduous and not nearly as glamorous as folk tales made out. For example, they had to be able to carry two 90-pound (41 kg) bundles of fur over portages. Some carried four or five, and there … more »

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There are footsteps in the alleyway behind our home
Can't help but wonder if they might just be my own
From moments ago
Still wandering in that sense of stale disillusion
Surrounding yourself with another excuse
From your seclusion

So characteristic of some wounded creature
With fog of winter on its breath
All you've ever known
Is the subtle repetition of your own abandonment

Your imagination knew no bounds
You lived in sound and subtle vibrations
I kept my place in the back of your mind
And I feigned recognition

Screaming through silence
For another handful of flesh
If only to feel its warmth
I am a thousand shallow graves
Marked with one pale rose
proof that you and I once existed
I am the smile lines on your weathered face
I left no other trace of my existence

So characteristic of some wounded creature
With fog of winter on its breath
All you've ever known
Is the subtle repetition of your own abandonment

Your imagination knew no bounds
You lived in sound and subtle vibrations
I kept my place in the back of your mind
And I feigned recognition

Wanderer are you wary still
Are you willing to repent?
Following in the dead of night with naught
But the guidance of my scent
Wanderer are you wary still
Are you blinded by your regret?

Your imagination knew no bounds
You lived in sound and subtle vibrations
I kept my place in the back of your mind
And I feigned recognition

What will become of the man
That I've built with these hands?
What will become of me?

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