The odious crawl to one-hundred
Was there time yesterday love? When last we laid down? The night progressed until everything went backward. But the past cannot be revisited, just remembered. Was it a game in the hallway, when we came together? You smoking just like you swore you never would, me on fire like I swore I’d never be again.
Here beside me, the silence is disquieting, everything is calm, I’m writing my thoughts onto the small of your back. You are asleep, and I know no one will ever read these words, least of all you. I have no paper, I have no pen, just flesh on flesh, fingers whispering lithely of mortality on pages the world will never read. I half-think the great bards would weep, could they read the thoughts written here. Quaintly, I saved them all this time, for a day I knew would come, to share them only with you. Quickly, these emotions steal away from me, if only they could find your heart, speak to the places where my words fail. My time is short, all things are that way between you and I. I cry here most plaintively for those lost words, and those lost moments, perchance someone could remember to me what she dares not say, speak now ageless ones, if anymore you ancients stir, bring forth the words she will not. Nothing. She remains silent, as unheard as she is unseen, I am quite restless, this night.
For their part, the dead lie silent, they cannot speak. They are absolved from this conversation. Would they plead to you now, these beings from the realm of days that once were? Would they insist that you speak at their behest, insist that you mark down somewhere these feelings of the things that were? How can you lie silently in this fashion? Your stubborn heart like a tomb.
Only the dead and I grow restless, weary of the living who now lie silent. Perhaps you simply know much better than we, know better than to waste words from your heart you may someday have to bury there.
If the dead have sinned in the days that were, they were brought before the justice of truth by time. Oblivion spoke finally for them in the end, and it will speak soon enough for us all. Silence is it’s simple, solemn vow. Those can be your words then, just not now.
The sage among us learn quickly that no memories endure. The dead have taught them this. The wicked exploit this, the naive ignore it, and the truly foolish vow never to believe in anything inevitable.
Speak now terse Siren, lend words to the thoughts you are determined never to part with. Did you come to probe my defenses, surely you were not surprised to find them lacking? Did you learn early on in the days of your fallen father, how simple it could be to prostrate me? Is this a fact held common by those of the ancient worlds below? What is said there, Siren, of man’s propensity for forgiveness? Is all the world simply a great expanse of gaping hearts, defensed only by one last, resolute Maginot line of misgiven emotion? The secret is yours Siren- does my heart appear before you like an unlocked door to a thief?
As we parted that day the sun showed brighter in my eyes, it must have been foolishness which blinded me. You had been here before, and I did not see that. And still I dally about these thoughts. Even now, just like then, I carry around always about my neck my last bit of luck. I am not a superstitious man, but I do take chances, in this sense the mind will forever be the battle ground of a war I am certain I will never win. But that is luck, the lot has already been cast for, and this is life, given to me by chance, and followed surreptitiously by you, destined finally for a fate as yet unknown.
Sleep now, troubled Siren. The world’s woes fall away easily for you. Find comfort in the knowledge that yours is a kingdom never to be felled. Dream of things the living will never see, dream of the subterranean home you will someday return to. You know Dante’s visions were but guesses, the secrets only you truly know, secrets you will never tell. I imagine as you sleep a wicked curl comes about your lips, we will all someday come to be a part of the silence you share with me.
Here beside me, the silence is disquieting, everything is calm, I’m writing my thoughts onto the small of your back. You are asleep, and I know no one will ever read these words, least of all you. I have no paper, I have no pen, just flesh on flesh, fingers whispering lithely of mortality on pages the world will never read. I half-think the great bards would weep, could they read the thoughts written here. Quaintly, I saved them all this time, for a day I knew would come, to share them only with you. Quickly, these emotions steal away from me, if only they could find your heart, speak to the places where my words fail. My time is short, all things are that way between you and I. I cry here most plaintively for those lost words, and those lost moments, perchance someone could remember to me what she dares not say, speak now ageless ones, if anymore you ancients stir, bring forth the words she will not. Nothing. She remains silent, as unheard as she is unseen, I am quite restless, this night.
One is silently sleeping, one heart is rapidly beating, to remember it now two worlds apart.
For their part, the dead lie silent, they cannot speak. They are absolved from this conversation. Would they plead to you now, these beings from the realm of days that once were? Would they insist that you speak at their behest, insist that you mark down somewhere these feelings of the things that were? How can you lie silently in this fashion? Your stubborn heart like a tomb.
Only the dead and I grow restless, weary of the living who now lie silent. Perhaps you simply know much better than we, know better than to waste words from your heart you may someday have to bury there.
If the dead have sinned in the days that were, they were brought before the justice of truth by time. Oblivion spoke finally for them in the end, and it will speak soon enough for us all. Silence is it’s simple, solemn vow. Those can be your words then, just not now.
The sage among us learn quickly that no memories endure. The dead have taught them this. The wicked exploit this, the naive ignore it, and the truly foolish vow never to believe in anything inevitable.
Much like a moth to the flame I have been called to your light. Twice I have come- twice anointed, twice consummated- twice have you held me to the flame, and twice have I been burned.
Speak now terse Siren, lend words to the thoughts you are determined never to part with. Did you come to probe my defenses, surely you were not surprised to find them lacking? Did you learn early on in the days of your fallen father, how simple it could be to prostrate me? Is this a fact held common by those of the ancient worlds below? What is said there, Siren, of man’s propensity for forgiveness? Is all the world simply a great expanse of gaping hearts, defensed only by one last, resolute Maginot line of misgiven emotion? The secret is yours Siren- does my heart appear before you like an unlocked door to a thief?
As we parted that day the sun showed brighter in my eyes, it must have been foolishness which blinded me. You had been here before, and I did not see that. And still I dally about these thoughts. Even now, just like then, I carry around always about my neck my last bit of luck. I am not a superstitious man, but I do take chances, in this sense the mind will forever be the battle ground of a war I am certain I will never win. But that is luck, the lot has already been cast for, and this is life, given to me by chance, and followed surreptitiously by you, destined finally for a fate as yet unknown.
Sleep now, troubled Siren. The world’s woes fall away easily for you. Find comfort in the knowledge that yours is a kingdom never to be felled. Dream of things the living will never see, dream of the subterranean home you will someday return to. You know Dante’s visions were but guesses, the secrets only you truly know, secrets you will never tell. I imagine as you sleep a wicked curl comes about your lips, we will all someday come to be a part of the silence you share with me.
We are all victims of the unknown evils of a world on fire. Spare me your tears, you devils, for we are all kindling; gaunt straw-men, smoldering in the flames of greed, and lust. We stoke the embers of gluttony, with sins and lies, ‘til they consume us.
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