I'm sorry I missed you dannye. I'm not sorry to miss you. I believe we agreed on liking each other, and little else. That and a message every year or so was fine.
This is the only thing of mine from the here of back then that still exists. I hope it's not some crime of vanity that it feels somehow right to bring it home about now.
The oldest one captains the bleak white ship of bone with palsied hands
The one of middle years wears a hope like chains
The youngest one cries tears of scarlet, and adjusts her latest smile
always they journey to greyed horizons across the flat seas of dream
ichor; the meniscus of the dead broken in a shimmering bow wave, the
glistening of the spun bone fragments set to mesmerize the eye.
Prompted by motivations lost to passed time, the voices of the
disturbed dead send their faint, plaintive songs of travel ended...
i was loved..i loved.. and i..
..wake me ..i must be
she lied...she died...we..
..gone..joined the throng
you..it's you...i must..
Stilled time, unmarked by the cycles that normally mar the pristine
now. A forward momentum and the quiet offerings of the dead under a
rarified sky become the world. No sun's heat, nor moon's calm. No
sleep divides the days, there are no breaths to count the moments. The
oldest one holds his wheel. The one of middle years searches the
horizon for change. The youngest one is lost in the sparkling play of
Again, not for the last time, the simple world shatters. A wide
expanse of the sargassine dead churns, and waves of crimsoned bone
drum louder against the ship. An ebon head breaches the bloody foam,
and a woman's perfect form rises across an age to fill the sepia sky.
A regal face crowned by wild black hair, tattoo banded breasts and a
swell of hips promised but lost to the jealous guarding deep.
The oldest one says "she's another god long dead". The one of middle
years stares in awed and urgent longing, almost undone by a primal
desire that leaves him hard and trembling. The youngest one studies
the giant dark face of beautiful pain, and changes smile. After a
thousand thousand brief awakenings, the presence of unloved divinity never fails to wound. The titan tilts her sightless face to the absent
heavens, discord's saddest music issues from a mouth that once shaped
time and space, and fragile promises of creation collide and dissipate
in the burning air. No words are heard, but countless prayers for
remembrance pin butterfly wings to the heart.
The oldest one says "Best not listen to yon Lorelei. She's oblivious
to her own unfinished struggle with the hourglass. Dreams desire no
audience, but they'll welcome new players to the stage."
They sail on, the three of the bone ship, leaving the nameless god;
she, unknowing, adds her tears to the sea as she sings wheels of fire
across the unbound sky.
Sailing moments unmeasured, lost within cycles of time scarred only by
the thoughts and questions left without voice...
The oldest one despairs: Will I die in this place?
The one of middle years searches: How did I come to this place?
The youngest one wonders: What is this place?
The dead have but one thought each, one question, one statement. With
repetition they lose no urgency. As the three pass, the gone and lost
sing stubborn fragments from the blood borne choir. Unbidden by his
companions, the oldest one sings a song of his own, his voice a
Sailing the dead dreamt sea
'a reason' our unanswered plea
our course is unknown
our purpose untold
a boat of white bone, and we three
the dead here afloat in their sea
from dreaming they'll never be free
they left but the shell
and a few whispered words
for a boat of white bone, and we three
A forward momentum. Old bones and the stilled sky. The oldest one
cannot remember how many times before he has sung the tune. The one of
middle years hopes yet again for a change in the words. The youngest
adjusts a new smile, and cries scarlet tears. The dead float and
whisper their song as they always will.