snake's grip, snaking fingers
cavern diving and teeth baring
drowning in the humidity, but never daring to breathe
can't turn back, explorer,
light has gone out.
you're on your own.
breathless wilds, trickle through my arteries,
waiting for the sun to rise over the stalemate of the night
has it been so long that it's all gone?
where did the hours go when
I could sleep?
taut and whipped,
vines disengage from my hands,
and I may reach out, once more
to my sun.
just fading, fading away,
ignore the woman behind the curtains of night
feels good to be running from the devil
catching my ankles, jabbed through metal
running running, and I'm running running -
When you’re born, a single birthmark develops on your skin. Sometimes it’s immediate and permanent, bold as brass until the day you realize who it’s for. Sometimes it’s vague, slowly building the older you go. Some have many of them, others just the one.
Mine was huge. My entire left arm, from shoulder to wrist, was solid black. It made me wonder if I had a lot of them, or just one big one. No one I knew or had met knew what it meant, but it certainly caught the attention of people when I went out.
That mark, no matter what it looks like, is your tie to your soulmate. Or how many you have, or will have. Fading marks mean you’re too far, or not quite on the right path yet. There’s always these cute stories about people going on journeys to find their soulmates, hopping from one place to another while their mark grows or fades. It’s like wearing a compass that your heart and soul controls.
Mine never did anything until I was twenty three. It was always a solid black, unmoving, no additions. Just solid. My mum thought it was special, my dad was impressed that it never moved though a little worried, and my older brother just said I looked like a cyborg. Thanks bro.
The day it shifted, I was standing in the middle of a courthouse, waiting for jury duty. I was the only one there so far, nothing out of the ordinary. The guard posted there was friendly enough, but small talk wasn’t encouraged for obvious reasons. No one ever showed up. It was just me. The judge said it was going to be a quick case, so they could get with me and one other person who was running a bit late. I agreed, thinking nothing of it.
The court went as fine as a court can go, I suppose. It was, just as the judge said, a fairly quick trial. The accused was in for grand theft auto, along with two accomplices. The officers were there, and the attorney for the accused had a resigned look on his face as the judge questioned him. My jury partner came in just a moment after we were seated, and that’s when it happened.
My arm lit up like the fourth of July as they sat down beside me, before I even had a chance to look at them. I was confused at first. It had never done anything before in all my years, and even the judge turned their eyes on me as they spoke, raising an eyebrow.
“Sorry I’m late, got held up.”
The woman beside me was stunning. Mahogany eyes peered at me beneath long black lashes, winged liner carrying on to her temples. A curtain of ebony hair fell in glistening sheets over her shoulders and down her back, and I wanted to run my fingers through her hair almost immediately. Her eyes went from confused to wide with surprise as she looked down at the beacon my arm had become.
“..You?” She whispered, and she reached out for my arm, before the judge clears their throat, and we turned back to the matter at hand.
I was speechless. Now, of all the times, places, events. My soulmate showed up during a court case, and I couldn’t even ask her her name or what her mark looked like. The day seemed to drag on forever, and we nearly fell over ourselves when the judge ordered a recess of an hour.
We stood across from each other, the break table between us, and simultaneously sat down. I rolled my sleeve up immediately, while she shrugged her cardigan off. Opposite arms, but matching. Solid black, from shoulder to wrist.
“Has yours ever moved?” She asked, and I shook my head.
“Never. I had it looked at by so many people, thought I was just broken or something. What about you?”
She shrugged her cardigan back on, shaking her head. “It took a lot of convincing that I wasn’t wrong. That my mark was okay. I um,” she looked uncomfortable for a moment, fiddling with the ends of her sleeves. “I was told that it never moved or anything because - because my self love was unwavering. My soulmate wouldn’t change that, but it would certainly light up my life.”
My arm shimmered again, radiating a soft light.
the fine line between a spirit of stars and immortal wishes
is both impossible and infinite;
the twisting of the fates belongs to no one,
unless you are born into one -
in my books, I have written the mysteries of you;
how a celestial body could ever bring forth
the opulent life force that you have become,
but the only one I give thanks to
for the light that was aroused in you
is your own courage
is your own heart -
I once counted stars, like I counted
the pages in my journals, left empty for hundreds
of year; nothing worthy to fill them
an echo of me
brushed bronze glazed my fingers
carbonite encased my heart, etchings of
smiles and tears too dark to see;
and yet, where I stood for thousands of years
was so easily shaken
when the heavens let you walk through -
the Night is my lifeblood,
the radiance of a thousand hearts
igniting in the early hours of existence,
but what makes you the spark
that has illuminated my Dark?
was it when I marvel at the strength in which you carry
the burdens of many?
was it when I feel the ache of three thousand years
buried in your bones?
I want to wrest the power to create hate
into depths deeper than Hades could see;
and then I am reminded of your smile,
and then I am reminded of your touch
and then I am reminded of your passion -
I am reminded why I worship the stars
and I remember that when we are
side by side
you see me differently;
not the woman who brought Titans
to their knees, quaking
not the snarling ex
of the god of shadows
not even as the daughter of Khaos,
no, when you see me,
I am a woman, between your hands
lost energy, found within you
when I see you,
it is living moiety -
I am home.
Prompt: Water sinking into sand.
Easy drips, running between the loss of one mountain turned one million. There are one million people under one sun, and they only choose to rejoice when the future steps up and presents a problem. When do the people know when to stop and think for the world? When do the people learn not to sin on themselves for enjoying what the sun has to offer? Will they ever learn to love themselves and not to disgrace the life they were given? I will rejoice, she said, as the water sank into the sand. There is no higher calling than to expand on that which makes a woman a woman. The yellow brick road does not open to just anyone with a pair of red slippers, it is a journey just to get there, and a journey to walk it. There is nothing easy about the road, and if you do not rejoice at it, it was eat you alive, turn you into the green witch.
Do not sit there lost in your own mind, do not let your silt sink to the bottom of the floor of your heart. Let it flow, let it move. It is there to nurture, not to harm. What can a flow of water do that a sitting silt pile cannot? It can grow, it can harvest, it can tame and explain and tell the rejoicing of the masses that the mountain sacrificed for their one million. You need to get your mind out of trouble, and when you do, you can get everything else out as well. You will find the prospects of your devil in hell to be dwindling. No enemy can imprison you, you will rejoice if you come out of your shell. And let it be known that you came out of your shell! Do not hide your rays among the clouds, let it spring free in your words, your countenance. Let the joy flow from your fingers, your tongue, your feet. Let the tiny dreaming grass awake to your life force, and let you be the god you are meant to be. There is, perhaps, a higher power, but have you considered the following:
The prayers you say to yourself to a higher power, are always turned back to you? Gods do not have faces to protect the innocent. If you knew you were a god, would you listen to yourself?
Prompt: Determined footsteps on slick obsidian.
I wish you had stayed in the guest room. My feet treading my floors heavily, black as obsidian, slick where you lay. I can’t be alongside you, I can’t let it flow from me to you anymore, it burns the night and slays the dawn and I am so lost, so lost in you. There are fingertips making me lose my religions, but you can’t leave me alone. I can’t leave you alone, you said you loved me and I said it too, but what does that mean when we can’t be in the same room?
The guest room, the guest room, it was all my fault - I got naked first. You were in the guest room, right next door. I could feel you through the walls, and it was all my fault. The obsidian is calling to me, you are calling to me. Underneath your teeth, it was like home, breaking me apart like a jeweler looking for a gold mine in their false gods. I keep thinking about you in the worst way, just laid out, your footsteps running down my arms. You never told me what you thought about obsidian, did you? Did you know it was supposed to give you strength, did you know it was supposed to ward off the pressures, the excess of stress - the excess of what was coming from the gods damned bedroom. I wish you left my tongue alone, left me alone naked in the rug of fire, wrapped around the consciousness of a god, entrails leaking from the eyes and sifting through my soul like a dog through the garbage bin. Coyotes don’t know what excess means, but they see a dying breed when they come upon it. I am the dying breed, it was all my fault. My obsidian floor did nothing to save me, it left me alone, it left me alone. What kind of witch is abandoned by her own? It was all my fault, and I stayed in your guest room. You pinned me down, teeth in my hair, ripped my heart into diamond shards, and carried me to bed.
Don’t let the night stay black, turn me away, don’t look back. Bring the obsidian to my door, leave it on the floor. My feet are black, my heart is black, my arms are cold, I lost myself to you again. And I don’t think I want it back. I don’t think I can take her back. She’s gone, isn’t she?
P O S T H U M A N
Setting the Stage
It is the year 3070, and I am alive. Or rather, what is considered to be alive in the present day. I have left behind countless numbers of friends, peers, enemies. I left behind my career, my family, my life.
In the year 2058, an ultimatum was given to the citizens of Earth from an alien government calling themselves the Foltash. The terms were simple: we had one Earth year to surrender to their race, or be annihilated.
Mankind’s reaction was as predictable as any science fiction novel could describe: panic, infighting, immoral actions followed by immoral words. We were ruining ourselves faster than we were saving ourselves.
But, just like in those novels, there were private companies that wanted to preserve mankind, regardless of the decisions we made come judgement day. Highly classified, unique facilities were built deep within the core of our planet. It was here that we would encapsulate the best and brightest of our kind, in the hopes that once all was said and done, we would repopulate and rebuild. It reminded me of a luxury fallout shelter, only we were working against the universe and time, instead of nuclear warfare.
I was one of them. I had a wife, two kids. I had been a leading mind within CERN, specializing in fiber optics. I was getting on in years, cruising into my fifties easily, so I volunteered to be a resource and teacher for the classes we held for the next generation and young minds.
I received the call on a summer day. The woman on the line gave me the option of a new life, a fresh start: something millions of people clamour for, but only the select few could have. It was akin to winning the lottery, but the prize was becoming an ice block. I had a decision to make: remake mankind, or be enslaved or killed within the new one. I had my family, my friends, everything I had worked so hard for, and in a moment I had to either perish with it or try again.
My wife took it the hardest. She called me a traitor, a blasphemer. She said this wasn’t “God’s plan”, but I had never believed in God. I believed in science. The more she railed against me, the harder I became, and I regret it. The kids were young enough not to understand what was going on - that was a blessing. The last thing my wife did was throw my suitcase at me, and told me to rot in hell.
I was picked up in a black Mercedes Benz an hour later. The driver was an old Arab with a flinty stare, but it was almost welcome compared to my wife’s tirade. Maybe he was one of the unlucky ones. A thick tinted window sat between myself and the driver, so it was nice to be able to ponder all this in silence. I watched the French countryside fly by me in a stupor. I had no idea where I was going, or what awaited me. In some ways, I think, it was better that way.
I found myself parked in the front doors to a hospital when we arrived, and I had to laugh to myself. Where else would someone go to die and be reborn? I thought of my wife’s words again - this isn’t God’s plan. I remembered all the times we had sat in church listening to the priest talking about forgiveness and love. Then I thought about how many people the Church had persecuted. I still didn’t believe in God. Science was a stalwart companion.
I walked into the reception and told the woman behind the desk my name: Charles Northcott. She gave me a smile and told me to have a seat, the doctor would come get me when ready. There was stale coffee in an urn and styrofoam cups that made me want to cringe, so I had water instead. I didn’t know if I should have an empty stomach to be put under. Best to be on the safe side.
A small TV sat crooked in the corner, playing the local news network. The hot topic was, of course, the Foltash. Hysteria was slowly climbing. I watched as a middle-aged man interviewed a dignitary from the USA. They were confident mankind could work something out with this new race. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry - so confident in our ability to believe in something not yet tangible. Ah. My wife wouldn’t have liked that.
One Dr. Mutaph gathered me from the empty waiting room two hours later. His handshake was firm, but his eyes seemed insincere. I couldn’t place it. He led me down corridors and staircases, winding passed nurses and empty hospital beds until I lost count of them all. Eventually, we stopped before a hermetically sealed door, pressed against the back wall of a lunchroom. A card key was produced and swiped, and it opened to let us pass through, sealing itself behind us with a soft hiss.
I had considered CERN to be an impressive facility, but this was beyond any scientist’s wildest dreams. Incomprehensible machines lay in uniform rows down the length of this cavern of a laboratory. I could smell sulfur and chlorine, and I vaguely wondered what either had to do with cryostasis. Dr. Mutaph led me around the winding maze of scientists and their stations, and I began to notice more civilians than not, and I surmised they were also recruits for the new world. I had an itch as we passed several enormous glass vaults, each containing two people inside. I didn’t make eye contact, and I had a feeling I didn’t want to know where they were destined to be in this labyrinth.
The doctor stopped before a large, capsule-shaped bed and smiled at me warmly as he handed me a pamphlet, telling me he would be right back. He took my suitcase with him, and gave me a key in turn - for the locker my things would be in when I woke up. As he walked away, I leaned against the bed, flipping over the pamphlet to read the outline on the procedures. I would be hooked up to an IV and fed small doses of liquid nitrogen, to begin the cooling process. It said that while this was a potentially fatal procedure, every effort would be made to avoid this. I was no expert in this field, but I remember thinking there had to have been more to it than just a drip of nitrogen. Sometimes, I wish I had asked more questions about everything before I went under. Maybe things would have been different. But, I digress.
A small section near the end that said the doctors responsible for me would ensure my optimal care and a comfortable rest before I was to awake again, whenever that might happen. Dr. Mutaph arrived just as I put the literature down, that same smile on his face as he asked me if I was ready. I said yes, though I wasn’t quite sure for what. He had me change into simple clothes - I chose a black shirt, khaki slacks, and loafers. Mutaph made a joke about not seeing while sleeping as he took my glasses, but assured me they would be on my nightstand when I woke. As I changed, I heard him absently mention maybe not even needing them, but I didn’t understand and I was too caught up with the pamphlet information to say that cryostasis wasn’t a health changing procedure, just a life changing one.
As I slid myself into the capsule, I noticed large orange numbers stenciled across the front of my bed. 507. Dr. Mutaph noticed and told me it helped the staff keep track of everyone in the facility. I nodded, as if this was an everyday thing. Where had my voice gone? The doctor told me to relax as a nurse came to my side with an IV. He re-explained what the pamphlet said, and then the nurse began. I remember my vision going very hazy as several nurses were suddenly by my side. And then it went black.
I remember awakening once before it was my time. I make out frantic voices, slurred in my grogginess. I felt something hot on my arms, but I didn’t have the strength to turn my head. I felt heavy, and I recall thinking it was an odd place to be having a bath. Someone leaned over me with a warm smile, and I recognized Doctor Mutaph. He assured me everything was alright, they were just doing a routine check-up on my vitals. I must have nodded, because he patted my shoulder and disappeared. There was a sudden pinch in my neck, and my vision faded once more.
It is now the year 3070. When I awoke, there was a greeting party waiting for me outside my capsule. Doctor Mutaph was there, as well as several smiling nurses. He welcomed me back, and urged me to take my time getting up. Two nurses came forward and helped me move my stiff joints. When I was upright, I rolled my shoulders to shake the rigid feeling from them. That was when I first noticed something was off. There was metal and slow-blinking lights beneath my skin.
I looked up at Mutaph, whose face hadn’t changed since I went under - his eyes had, though. They had been brown when I first met him, now they were a light olive green. He explained to me that my cryostasis had been interrupted by a hiccup in 2870. To ensure I lived, they had changed out several of my limbs and organs to computer-based technology. I had retained the mind of a fifty-two year old scientist, but was now living in a body that was over a thousand years old, and could run eternally. What had I become?
Everything was a blur after that. They returned my belongings to me, but advised that I would most likely want to upgrade to the newest trends once I was acclimated to the current Earth’s fashion. That tidbit of information gave me some faint hope: Earth still had a fashion, so it couldn’t be too bad. Maybe we really did manage to scare the Foltash off.
I wasn’t told anything about what had happened since I had been frozen. They had me do rigorous health and mental tests, ensuring I was still in ‘optimal condition’, as one nurse called it absently. When the lead doctor caught the look on my face, he hurriedly mentioned that this was just casual lingo between the staff, and apologized for the worry. I wasn’t worried, though. I was confused. On day five, I was finally sat down, along with a few other people that had awoken, and we were given the full rundown of what had happened since our artificial sleep.
The major governing bodies of Earth had, to my incredulous surprise, come together to have a meeting on what to do about the Foltash. According to these people, there was a bloody war that somehow ended in a stalemate.
With all the advances that these aliens had, a stalemate? I wasn’t the only one who questioned it. A woman named Sudi asked quite bluntly how the fuck had mankind come even remotely close to a stalemate, when we were so obviously out-manned and out-gunned. The reply we got was that we had prepared well enough to hold our ground, though the casualty count was outrageous. Sudi didn’t seem happy with the answer, and neither was I. But I was not sure where I stood in the world for the moment, so I kept my counsel to myself.
The surface was now populated by both aliens and humans, as well as cyborgs and androids. Interstellar breeding, as the staff called it, was not uncommon. There was, in fact, a singular ruling government body now, called the Conclave of the People, or the COP. That got a few dry laughs from the room. The COP were the ones who made the big decisions, manned by both aliens and humans, were located on Earth, specifically in Antarctica.
Something felt entirely off-key throughout the discussion. Sudi raised her hand, eyes narrowed as she asked if the COP knew about this facility, and the others similar to it. The big wigs hemmed and hawed, but in the end the answer was no, they were not aware. Of course everyone wanted to know why, and to my surprise once more, Doctor Mutaph rose. He stated that they were being cautious, as they weren’t sure what the COP would do if they found unregistered humans locked away from civilization.
Unregistered? Was the general outcry, and Mutaph backpedaled, saying it was similar to having a citizen count for a standalone country. Nothing out of the ordinary.
The debriefing concluded with us being advised that we would be called upon individually in the days to come, to nail down the next course of action. I spent the majority of my time in my room regardless, so I decided to wait out my fate once dismissed. I went two days with peace and quiet. On the third night, a knock on my door around midnight presented to me Sudi, who looked as if she had just run a marathon. She let herself in quickly, shutting and locking the door behind her, before dropping onto my couch without so much as a greeting.
Sudi had done some digging. The debriefing had felt rehearsed, according to her. Too composed, too ready. So, she had sneaked into a few computers and downloaded information on patients in our facility, including myself. At first, she had found what would be considered normal data: date of birth, health and dental records, allergies, et cetera. She also found what changes had occured with me - the ones Mutaph had said were ‘precautionary methods’ because I had been accidentally woken up in 2870.
They weren’t precautionary, by any means. It was planned. They had planned to make me into a bionic. And I wasn’t the only one - Sudi had been changed too, as well as the others in our group.
I kicked myself for not seeing the tiny pulsing lights in her shoulders until that moment, and it got worse the longer Sudi spoke. These additions came with things like ‘better reflexes’, and ‘extended life expectancy’, as well ‘ability to breathe underwater for an hour’, ‘retrained eyesight for sniper work’, as well as ‘heightening of the five senses’, ‘nanomeds installed in the bloodstream’, and the highly ominous ‘repairs to organs feasible’.
When Sudi finished her rundown, I asked her why she had come to me first. She merely shrugged and told me it was because I had seemed the most critical towards the information relayed to us, that I probably wanted to know where we truly stood in the world. I mulled her words over for a moment, then asked her what she thought of the COP. She said it was a crock of shit - there was no way mankind just magically created a truce with a very-clearly superior race, and suddenly we were all, buddy-buddy and making world peace a priority. The ‘registration’ of humans had tipped her off. The fact that the Conclave didn’t know we were here was another. I didn’t disagree with Sudi, and suddenly, I wanted to be as far away from this place as possible.
Sudi told me that we would begin training in a few days, where we would be in gun ranges, large gyms, and electricity machines. All of them made my bones cringe. I was old, too old. If they were going to try and train me to be a killer, I was a goner. The look on my face must have tipped Sudi off, as she reminded me that I may have the visage of an old man, but I was much younger and newer on the inside. In the end, we decided to go through with it all, perhaps it would be useful in the long run.
I wish we hadn't been so right.
There had been four of us, astutely labeled as the ‘B’ team. They threw everything at us: martial arts, lock picking, wilderness survival, hacking, and how to wield a variety of weapons. Countless techniques and styles were given to us with almost impossible deadlines to master. History, biochemical engineering, open heart surgery - never in my wildest dreams would I imagine myself here. And yet, here is exactly where I was.
It felt like a game. There were two other teams, ‘A’ and ‘C’, respectively. Our mentors pit us against one another, observing how we reacted under pressure in team activities, as well as one-on-ones. I began to notice more and more often that there was a nurse or doctor watching us furtively from some corner of the room, or through a window pane. It made me uneasy, and when I mentioned it to Sudi, she said she had noticed too. She murmured that she had started sleeping with a knife under her pillow the last few days after seeing a nurse trying to break into her room. I took a leaf from her book and started doing the same.
It was a month or so later, just before I was going to bed. A note slid beneath my door, unsigned. I didn’t recognize the handwriting - I knew most of my team by now, as well as my opposers. It was scrawled in delicate penmanship:
4th floor. Laundry. Bring concealer. Truth will out.
I was at a loss. Who would be there? Why were they reaching out to me, and to what end? I contemplated going to bed and ignoring it when a quick rap on my door revealed Sudi, who had a similar paper in her hand. She saw mine and nodded, as if it all made sense. I wish I had that kind of understanding.
Sudi asked if I was going, and I paused. Didn’t it seem strange to receive this, after all we had been through? What if it was a ploy to weed out insubordinates?
Sudi was the brave kind of people you find during floods and famine - leap in, do what needs to get done, and get out. She had brought a knife with her, her ‘concealer’, and a spare for me should I choose to go. I hesitated, but something about the way Sudi held it out made me want to run to her. I agreed to go with her, so we left, right then and there. We met no one on our way up, which made me even more suspicious. There was always a patrol of some kind in the corridors. Who was responsible for all this? I wanted answers.
When we arrive in the laundry room, a sticky note is stuck to the side of one of the dryers. Sudi got to it first.
The square behind.
We turn around simultaneously to see a large, square vent nestled behind a double stacked washing machine. To the passing eye, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. However, when we looked closer, the screws were already loosened for us, and a small note written in chalk marker was just inside the lip.
Sudi nearly dived into it, and I debated for all of thirty seconds before following behind, ensuring the venting grate was reattached and rubbing out the message on my way in. We followed the venting for what felt like hours, sweat pouring down us. We didn’t dare speak to one another - we had no idea if anyone could hear us moving, and we had no intention of finding out what happens if we get caught.
When sunlight started to filter through the end of the tunnel, we hurried onward, eager to be free of our confines. We breached the gate in no time, and pulled ourselves out into a semi-wooded clearing, the sunlight blinding us. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen the sun. But here we were. Free.
But from what?
The reset, as they say, is history. A fellow named Dirge was waiting for us, just inside the tree line. Sudi nearly stabbed in surprise, before he explained that everything we had been told were, in fact, lies. The grand scheme of this cryo-project was far bigger than we had ever imagined.
Dirge took us to his underground dwelling, where the resistance against the government and the corporations - like the one we had been held in - congregated. Dirge said they called themselves the Rebirth Renegades. We were greeted by their leads: Trey, their IT; Ace, their communications officer; and Val, their strike commander. They gave us the option of joining this resistance. Sudi, of course, joined right away. In a way, it felt right to join them. I had been betrayed, lost everything and everyone I had known. I had become an engineered pawn, to be pushed into a war with the hopes that I would make a difference.
And you know what? That was alright.
I signed on.
We received new identities, outfits, quarters - the works. My anger rose to the surface as I reinvented myself in this new, foreign world. It was almost a relief to feel something other than confusion. I was tired of being told where to go with no direction or goal. I did not wish to be a puppet any longer.
My long-dead wife’s words resurfaced again: This is not God’s plan. It surely was not. I have never been a believer in gods or deities. I believed in science. So, when Dirge asked me what I wanted to go by, I told them the Preacher. Charles Northcott was on ice.
We would move on the Conclave, and the ones who would corrupt the human purpose of living. There would be a fight to right the unbalance made nearly a thousand years ago. This was not God’s plan, however. No, this was my plan.
Alleluya, you are dismissed. Amen.
Prompt: A perfect iron loop.
Let it be a perfect iron loop around the grip of the world. The testament of a good deed done well, and well enough to keep the magicks of the world together, at least for a short amount of time.
The cycles of time do not know where they stop or start, so why should humanity? They search for the end times, the beginning times, what happens in current times and what will happen in soon-to-be present times. There is no need to follow the sun so closely, to follow the passing of time so closely, when it will shun us so readily when it is ready. The sounds of the passing of life are echoing between it all; the tightened rings of time squeezing our arms like a bear hug that will poison you if you squeeze back.
The undead don’t linger, do they? They lose themselves to time, become the constraints that we bind ourselves to. And we let them. We do not stop them, but we pine for them. We pine for the way they let go and forget what it means to be a tick on their jail cell wall, and hope for the best that they won’t find their way home.
There is no stopping time or its slimy hands. It will show you that while it can destroy, kill, or erase entirely, it will also heal, erode, and rebuild if given the chance. There is nothing sacred to time, and the only thing that is worth looking into when looking for immortality and divinity is how well you can get along with the passing of it.
The way we shift to hold it between our hands? It’s a plot. A way for us to let go and let ourselves believe us to be dead and insurmountable, but it is a lie, and we know it. There is no way to close the windowsill. We must sit and watch it turn on the street lamps and shut the cat away while it prowls the dark trees for loose change and dead cigar butts. It will strangle you in your doorway, and do not let it convince you that living is a wild temptation. It it not worth crying over, but it is worth living and it is worth living all the way to a natural end, or as natural as time will allow you to go through with.
We think the Reaper is a killer, but he is an agent of time. And he is here to collect the most hardy of minutes, the softest of hours, the wildest of seconds, all between the slowest of eternities. Do not take it for granted. Time will catch up, always.
the freight train in the middle of my head
blows the whistle at your stop, every stop
resting witch face,
pressed against the glass
waiting, waiting for what
I do not know.
there is a film, so gaudy and clouded,
enough to see through the illusion
not enough to hold it back
susceptible to the night,
maybe that’s why Nyx chose me -
maybe that’s why I bleed -
sometimes it is like someone took a knife to the soul
and yes, you cool my desire.
contentment sways her hips between the two -
perhaps we are always meant to be on fire.